The Aftermath in the Breakup
by ladyjane777
Summary: My version of "what happens next." Begins where "Daredevil in the Mold" ends. A drunken incident in the hall, a very angry Booth, a new case, and Brennan must figure out how/if she fits into Booth's life post-Hannah. Lots of action/danger/angst to come! Now complete!
1. Chapter 1

_This is my very first stab at writing a fanfic, so it's sort of an experiment on my part. Hope you guys like it! I'm excited to see where this takes us!_

_After watching season 6, I've been itching to "fill in the blanks" a bit with my version of what happened after Booth and Brennan left the bar. It's been rattling around in my head for a few weeks, so I finally decided to get it down on paper. I may or may not follow the episodes that follow "Daredevil"…. Just depends on where the story takes me. _

_And, of course, we all know that I own none of the characters of Bones. I'm just borrowing them for a bit._

He was drunk. She couldn't blame him, actually, given the events of the evening. She had found him, knowing he'd be there at the Founding Fathers, knowing she needed to be there, but not quite knowing what was going to happen next…and where she fit into what came next. So she asked him, heart pounding in her chest, afraid of his response. She knew it was a risk. She was trying to take more risks… especially with him.

"What happens next?"

His response was what she feared – a drunken rant, laced with anger and pain, directed at her, at the others, at women in general. She had walked into the bar with a tiny sliver of hope that now that Hannah was gone, he'd just fall into her arms, but knowing rationally that this wasn't possible. Not yet. Maybe not ever. As she listened to him rail on about love and women and what was wrong with him, the pit in her stomach grew with each angry word he uttered, and the awful, nagging words reverberated through her, more loudly than ever:

"_I missed my chance."_

When he threatened to "find a new FBI guy" for her, she wanted to die right there. He gave her a choice: she could be his partner, nothing more, or she could leave. He was drawing that damn "line" of his again; only this time, he was using it as a wall. He was shutting her out.

But she stayed with him there because she couldn't imagine the alternative. She drank with him, listening to his negativity and vitriol, until he got it all out. And then they just sat there in silence: he, drinking an occasional shot, staring at the bar; she, alternately sneaking sideways glances at his profile and staring into her lap, trying to figure him out, trying to figure out what was next for _her_. Their silence eventually shifted from tense to almost companionable. She knew him best, knew that, this time, he needed time _and_ space, and she gave it to him.

The bartender gave last call, and she paid their tab. His sullenness had eased a bit, but his head hung low to the bar as the alcohol-induced stupor overcame him. She knew it was on her to make sure he got home. She gathered her bag and jacket, and then stood, afraid to touch him.

"Come on, Booth. We have to get you home."

He sat for a few more seconds, not responding, and she began to wonder if he had even heard her. She stood there and waited, until he finally glanced over his shoulder at her, his expression irritated but resigned. She dropped her eyes. She could feel his rejection, and part of her was ashamed that she was standing here putting up with it like a forlorn, desperate teenager. This was uncharted territory for her, and she felt exposed before him, but her commitment to him as a friend trumped her need to run from him, and she resolved to silently support him, even if he was intent on hurting her right now. She cautiously reached for his elbow, urging him to stand, and he did so without resistance. He followed her out of the bar, swaying and bumping into her, making no apologies for his unsteadiness.

His black SUV was parked on the curb, but she'd have to come back and get it in the morning. Neither one of them was fit to drive, though she had had far fewer drinks than he. She hailed a cab and helped him in, and then slid in next to him, urging him over to make room for her, he grunted and leaned against the opposite door, and before she could give the driver his address, he was asleep.

When they reached his apartment, she jostled his shoulder a bit, rousing him from his slumber. He looked at her, confused, and blinked against the blinding dome light of the car as she opened her door.

"Come on, Booth," she said from the curb, holding out her hand.

He reluctantly slid across the seat and stood too quickly, smashing his head on the doorjamb of the car. She was at his side immediately, pulling him up, checking his head, forgetting her earlier reluctance to touch him. He grimaced in pain as she found the knot, her fingers gently checking for blood. Satisfied that he was all right, she turned her attention back to his face, and suddenly noticed him staring at her intently, eyes boring into hers, his expression softer than before. She blushed and dropped her hands, closed the taxi door, and headed toward his building. He stumbled behind her, until she remembered how unsteady he was, and slowed her pace so she could help him.

They walked to the lobby in silence at first, and she could feel his uneasiness, as if he was considering what to say. When they reached the elevator, she pushed his floor, and he fell against the wall and cleared his throat.

"Um, look, Bones, you don't have to… I'm fine…"

"Booth, you are not fine. You are intoxicated and you can barely walk."

The elevator chimed and the doors slid open, and she pulled him off of the wall and guided him into the elevator. They fell silent again and he leaned against the side wall of the car as the mirrored doors closed, and she caught him staring at her again.

"Booth…"

"Bones…." he interrupted, and then lost his balance and stumbled as the elevator lurched upward. He grabbed at the rail to right himself. "Hey, Bones, I'm really sorry about earlier. I was a jerk."

"You were upset, Booth. You've had a hard night." She looked back to the floor. He was calling her "Bones." The familiarity of the name contrasted with the distance he had put between them earlier stabbed at her like a knife.

"I mean it, Bones. I'm sorry I… vomited all over you with all my crap. You're a good friend…" he stumbled again as the elevator stopped at his floor, falling onto her as she caught him and helped him regain his balance. She led him into the hallway towards his front door.

"You didn't regurgitate on me, Booth, but you probably will tomorrow morning once the alcohol poisoning sets in…."

"Whatever, Bones, you know what I mean. I didn't mean to say all that stuff I said."

She stopped at his door as he fumbled around in his pockets.

"Keys! Damn it! I left my keys…"

Brennan knelt and picked up the fake rock that contained his spare key and unlocked his door. He gave her a drunken smirk as she pushed the door open, and she smirked back, the unspoken joke regarding his ridiculous hiding place not lost on them.

"Good night, Booth," she said. Turning to go, she felt his hand grip her arm, spinning her back towards him. She suddenly found herself pressed against the door frame, his lips suddenly crashing into hers, his hands gripping her arms like a vice. Shocked, she put her hands on his chest, her body at war with her mind, everything in her wanting to pull him closer and lose herself in him…

_No._

"Booth!" she cried out against his lips. She pushed him off of her, gasping, tears in her eyes. He looked like she had stabbed him. He reached for her face. "Booth! No! This isn't right!"

He held her face in his hands, his eyes glassy, flashing desire, then hurt, then anger. He dropped his hands and stepped backward, glaring at her with glassy eyes, his face red, veins bulging in his neck. She had never seen him so angry, and the sheer power of his emotion shocked and almost frightened her. He stood over her for a few long seconds, then suddenly shoved past her into his apartment and slammed the door, leaving her alone in the hallway, shocked and weeping.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

_Wow….you guys have blown me away with your reviews, alerts, and favorites! Thank you so much! Keep them coming and I'll write like a maniac to keep the updates frequent for you._

_Okay, one more "internal monologue" chapter for Brennan (I strongly identify with her, so it's really easy to write her thoughts!), and then we'll get some action going. Stay with me here, and let me know what you think._

Brennan lay in her bed, having given up on sleep. It was five in the morning. She was wrecked. From the time he shut her out of his apartment, she had been overcome with every emotion imaginable. She was not emotional by nature, and this rush of so many unwelcome feelings took her off guard. She was angry for allowing herself to be ruled by them.

After standing in his hallway, stunned at the kiss and at his reaction when she'd stopped him, she had collected herself enough to get to the lobby and call for a cab. The twenty minutes it took for the cab to arrive seemed like an eternity, and she fought a steady stream of tears while she waited, taking care to keep her back to the elevator in case he happened to come downstairs. She would not let him see her cry. He didn't follow her down, and she was relieved when the taxi arrived, ducking her head as she dashed from the door to the cab so as not to reveal the shine of tears on her face if he happened to be watching from his window.

She turned onto her side in the bed and looked out the window. The tears came back with a vengeance again as she replayed the kiss, which was so much like the last kiss they shared, one that had also ended in her pushing him away. It dawned on her that the reason for his anger tonight was probably due to his wrongly interpreting her actions as rejection. She _had_ rejected him a year ago, not because of him, but because she was so afraid, so inadequate, so damn fearful to even try. It had all fallen apart after that, and in Maluku she had determined that, when they got home, things would be so different. She came back with newfound resolve to be more open, ready to let him in, and he came back with Hannah, and had treated her like a mere acquaintance ever since. The undercurrent of hurt she had felt since then had been ever-present, but now it was paralyzing; although it was impossible for one's heart to literally break, she now understood this debilitating pain in her chest to be a broken heart.

She cried until there were no more tears, and then she berated herself for pining over this man, and for allowing herself to fall for him in the first place. She was Dr. Temperance Brennan: genius, rational to a fault, ever self-sufficient. She had always prided herself in her ability to maintain control in her relationships, and to cut them off before _this_ happened – hurt was to be avoided at all costs. She never let anyone get close enough to hurt her, and she had tried to stop things with Booth before they both got hurt, and _damn_ him for making things so complicated. She had evolved tremendously since that night outside the Hoover. Since then, she had changed _because of him_, had learned to open herself to others more in the past year, risking everything to put herself out there - and he had kept her at a distance. He had no idea who she was anymore. Her actions tonight – all of them – were out of care and concern for him, and she felt used and taken advantage of now. Tonight she had pushed him away because he was drunk, and there was no way in hell that she was going to let him make _her_ the consolation prize, as he called it.

She wasn't sure how she was going to face him, and she prayed to whomever would listen that they wouldn't get a case tomorrow. She needed time in Limbo to collect herself, work on something old, to do what she did best with her work, and allow her world to – once again – right itself. Maybe she'd speak to Cam about sending an intern in her stead for the next couple of weeks if the services of the Jeffersonian were needed on a case.

She thought about Booth and wondered if he was sleeping. She guessed that he had probably drunk some more once he got into his apartment. She knew that once he walked into his empty apartment and remembered that Hannah was gone, having cleared out her things earlier that evening, he was going to hit bottom. She worried about his safety; worried that he might do something stupid. The thought urged her out of bed, and she grabbed her cell phone from the nightstand, running through a mental list of the best candidates to check on him, until she finally landed on Cam. She scrolled to her number and pressed "send." Cam's sleepy voice answered almost immediately.

"Brennan? What's up?"

Brennan briefly explained the events of the night, leaving out the more dramatic parts involving her, and asked Cam to check on him.

"Sure, okay. I'll go over there. Are you….okay, Brennan?"

"I don't want to talk about it, Cam. I do need to discuss work arrangements with you when we get to the lab, because I need a break from the field…and I would prefer if you don't mention that to Booth when you see him."

"If that's what you need, we'll work it out. I'll see you at the lab."

They signed off and Brennan stood at the window, relaxing a bit knowing that Booth would be in good hands.

_That's it for now…. As I said, action is coming. Reviews will make it come faster! ;)_


	3. Chapter 3

_You guys are so kind. I find your interest in my story very motivating! _

Chapter 3

Brennan walked into the lab at exactly 7:30 am, her usual time, and headed straight to her office. Feeling groggy and stale from her sleepless night, she just wanted to sit at her desk, drink her coffee, and not converse with anyone until she felt focused on the day. She hadn't heard from Cam, so she deduced that Booth was at least safe; Cam would have called if he weren't. She decided to push the thoughts of him out of her mind, find a batch of old files to attack, and put together a plan for the day's work.

Her office was comforting; more of a sanctuary than her home was, and it was easier to engage her compartmentalization instinct surrounded by the familiar objects that symbolized her work life. She relaxed a bit, drank her coffee, and answered emails from various agencies and academics who were asking for a professional consult. Soon she heard the swooshing of the front doors, signaling the beginning of the workday for the rest of the lab. People would begin trickling in at a steady rate, and she did not want to see anyone yet. She quickly drank the last gulp of her coffee, donned her lab coat, and quickly headed down to Limbo, where she immediately got to work identifying sets of Protohistoric remains from Korea.

Well past lunchtime, she heard the clacking of Angela's ballerina flats approaching, and Brennan sighed. She had known that Angela would eventually find her.

"Sweetie."

Brennan put down the ancient tibia she was examining and turned around to face her best friend.

"Oh, God, sweetie. You look like you've been rode hard and put away wet! What is going on?"

"I don't know what that means…" Brennan mumbled reflexively. "But if you're referring to my haggard appearance, then yes: I would agree that I have looked much better…."

Angela rolled her eyes. "Sweetie. Seriously, what is going on with you? I know you only hide in Limbo when something is really wrong."

"I am not hiding, Angela. I just have a lot of work to do."

"Yeah, that's not working for me right now, Bren. Cam looks like hell, too. She came around nine – late – and said something about Booth being all amped up about something. Did something happen between the two of you?"

Brennan took in a cleansing breath and exhaled slowly, fighting back the tears that she had managed to forget about most of the morning. She felt the old urge to shut down, build the walls, not talk about anything… but that was the old Brennan. She looked at her feet and gave Angela the abridged version:

"Hannah called me last night. Booth proposed to her, and she turned him down. She called me because she knew that he needed a friend."

Angela's eyes were the size of the dinner plates at the Royal Diner. She gasped. "Oh…my…GOD! Did they… are they splitsville?"

Brennan nodded, eyes still on her shoes.

"Sweetie! This is amazing news! So what happened? Did you go to him?"

"Yes, I found him drunk at the Founding Fathers and took him home. Booth is mad… mad at women in general, and at me specifically. He told me that we could be partners – just partners – or I could leave and he'd find me a new agent to work with. He doesn't want anything to do with me."

"That's just the post-breakup defense mechanism talking, Bren. He loves you. He'll come around."

"I'm not so sure about that, Ange. When I left him, he was more irate than I've ever seen him."

Angela frowned. "So you went to console him – be a friend – and he basically acted like a pouty little baby all night? Did he ever thank you for caring?"

"He kissed me."

"WHAT?"

"I pushed him away, Ange. I couldn't do it. It wasn't right. _He_ wasn't right. I knew it was the alcohol, and I knew it would make things even more complicated. It made him really angry…" A single tear escaped, and Brennan angrily wiped it away.

"What an ASSHOLE!" Angela was practically shouting now. "So he gets drunk, dumps all over you, blames you for his misery, gives you an partners-only ultimatum, and then has the nerve to KISS you? Who is this guy? He's not the same person he was before he left for Afghanistan."

Brennan nodded and looked at Angela, tears in her eyes. "I am afraid that I am the reason for the change. I pushed him away. It's my fault…."

"Sweetie. There is no way in HELL that this is all on you. He has to take responsibility for being Special Agent Asshole these past few months…. And after last night, well… Oh, Bren. I am so sorry."

Angela went to Brennan and threw her arms around her, holding her tightly. Brennan, finally in the grasp of someone who understood her better than Brennan herself, let go and wept into her friend's shoulder.

Angela held her friend for awhile, letting her cry, then said into her hair, "Bren, there are two things that I know to be true." Angela pulled away, holding Brennan at arms length and looking her square in the eyes. "First, you are an _amazing_ person, Bren. I know you don't believe that, but it's true. You are the most caring, warm, loving person that I have ever known. You have a huge heart. I see it, and those who love you see it, too. You deserve real love. You don't deserve to be the rebound girl – the 'consolation prize,' as Booth says. You are SO much better than that."

Her affirmation of character unleashed a fresh downpour of tears from Brennan. "Thanks, Ange," she managed through her tears.

"It's all true," Angela stated, wiping the tears from Brennan's face. "And secondly, Booth is being _incredibly_ selfish right now. In fact, he's being a total douche. He knows how you feel about him, and all he can see right now are his feelings. He's hurt. But I still believe that he's a good man. He's just a little lost right now. Give him some time to process things - live your life, don't allow yourself to pine for him - and he'll come back. I'm sure that once he sobers up later today, he'll realize what a douchebag he's been."

Brennan laughed through her tears at the crude description of Booth, and then nodded. "You're right, Ange. Thanks. I'll be okay."

Just then they heard movement at the doorway.

"Dr. Brennan?"

It was Clark, looking sheepish for intruding on what was obviously a sensitive conversation.

Brennan quickly turned toward the bones on the table, hoping to hide her tear-stained face. "Yes, Clark?"

"I'm sorry to interrupt, but you're needed in Cam's office."

Brennan looked at Angela, who gave her a grim look. Brennan straightened her lab coat and said, "Thank you, Clark. Tell her that I will be right up."

Angela gave Brennan one more hug. "Let me know what Cam says!"

Brennan promised that she would, then made her way to the Autopsy room to find Cam.

######################

"You wanted to see me? How's Booth?" Brennan said upon entrance to Cam's area.

Brennan came through the doorway to see that Cam wasn't alone as Brennan expected. Standing at Cam's computer was a stern-looking man with the shoulders of a linebacker and a military-style haircut that matched his uptight demeanor.

"Dr. Brennan," Cam said, giving her an apologetic look. "This is Special Agent Page. He has been assigned to take over Agent Booth's caseload. You'll be working with him for a while. He has brought us a case."

Brennan's heart sank and her knees weakened under her. Booth had made good on his promise to have her reassigned. She pushed away the sense of panic that was creeping through her body like a cold, dense fog.

Her expression must have betrayed her, and Cam filled the awkward silence by raving about Brennan's credentials and her solve rate. Agent Page seemed unimpressed.

He looked at Brennan, sizing her up, and leaned on the autopsy counter. "A body was found this morning in the garage of an elderly couple in Georgetown. They woke up smelling smoke and opened their garage door to find the body of who they think is their granddaughter smoldering on the garage floor. Looks like she was killed and set afire at another location. I'm having the body sent here for you to identify and determine cause of death. The remains should arrive within the next hour or two."

Brennan looked at him impatiently. "Thank you, Agent Page, but I'd rather go with you to the crime scene to oversee the initial investigation and removal of the remains."

"Dr. Brennan, standard FBI protocol is to send remains to the Jeffersonian for examination. My people are more than adept at maintaining the integrity of the scene and the remains. Your presence will not be necessary."

Brennan was about to lose it. "Agent Page, regardless of FBI protocol, if I am to properly contribute my expertise to this investigation, I insist on beginning it in the field. I have operated this way with Agent Booth for seven years…"

"…and I am not Agent Booth, Dr. Brennan. Your presence in the field is known to be abrasive and intrusive. Your services will be best utilized here. I will keep you in the loop regarding our findings."

He pushed off the counter and stalked out the door, leaving Brennan speechless in his wake.

As soon as he was gone, Cam rushed to Brennan's side. "I'm so sorry, Dr. Brennan. I didn't know about any of this until he came in…"

"Cam, where is Booth?" Brennan interrupted.

Cam sighed, bracing herself. "Apparently he is taking some time off. Agent Page said that he'd be taking over his cases for the next month. Page hinted that Booth was out of the country. I guess he left a couple of hours ago."

Brennan said nothing. She let the reality sink in: Booth was gone. He left without calling her to explain. She ignored the tirade of nagging thoughts that raced through her, calling up old feelings of abandonment and rejection.

"How was he when you saw him this morning?" Brennan inquired after a long silence.

"I think I woke him up," Cam said. "He wouldn't open the door. Just said that he was fine, that he didn't want to see anyone, and that he needed time to sort things out. I don't mean to pry, Dr. Brennan, but did you have a falling out?"

"I don't want to talk about it, Cam."

"If you need to take the day and get some rest, I can have your interns begin the examination of the body. Totally doable."

"I appreciate that, Cam, but I need to work. Thank you for checking on Booth. Let me know when the remains arrive. I'll be in my office."

Cam nodded understandingly, and Brennan left in a daze.

She was emotionally spent. She made her way to her office and retreated behind her desk, trying to figure out what to do next. She woke her computer, logged into her email in the hopes that Booth had at least sent her a note. Scanning through her message list, she found nothing. She closed the window and logged off, and then laid her head down on her desk, completely void of any thought about what to do or where to find Booth.

_Whew! This one wore me out! Review me! I'll be a good girl and write you some more! _


	4. Chapter 4

_Here's a nice, long update for you guys. I'm having so much fun writing this! Thanks for reading! Hope you enjoy it!_

Chapter 4

Booth stood on the front porch of the beach hut and watched the sun rise over the ocean. Jared had told him about this "magical place" on Phuket Island long ago, but Booth never had the desire to visit Thailand until he suddenly found himself needing to disappear from his world in D.C.

The decision to leave had been swift, impulsive. He called Rebecca to tell her that he wouldn't be around for a while, sent Hacker a quick email to notify him that he'd be taking at least a month off (Hacker owed him big time anyway), and used his FBI credentials to book the first flight out.

Now, four days later, he was sitting by the Indian Ocean, and no one in the world knew where he was. And he was very, very happy about that.

He was glad to be so far away, with no connection to his world back home. His phone didn't work here, he had left his laptop at his apartment in D.C., and the only way he could contact the outside world was via a very expensive pay phone in the lobby. He had chosen this sequestered existence because he was worried that, if he brought his gadgets with him, he would cave and do something stupid, like call Bones.

_Bones._ He punched the rail on the porch deck at the thought of her. He could not face her. He was ashamed of himself for his weakness in kissing her, but livid with her for her latest rejection of him. He was tired of her "issues." Had she not, just a few months ago, told him that she was regretful of pushing him away? He couldn't figure her out, and was tired of trying. The need to exorcise her from his soul was overwhelming, and he clawed at the confines of his heart like a caged animal desperately trying to escape the very thought of her.

When was he going to learn that she did not want him? He cursed himself for his stupid, drunken behavior, and cursed her for her stupid resolve to cling to her damn emotional walls. He would have slept with her, he realized. He would have taken her into his apartment, Hannah's essence still lingering there, and shown Bones how he felt about her – how he knew he'd always felt about her. What kind of man had he become?

Hannah was a diversion. He knew that now. Deep soul-searching had commenced almost immediately upon his arrival on the island, and he was sick over the person he saw himself becoming. His need to prove that he could be that guy – that family man – had almost caused him to marry second-best. Thing is, she didn't want him. Thank God she didn't, or he'd be planning a wedding right now to a woman that was so wrong for him. But Bones didn't want him, either, and Rebecca hadn't before that. He could not push past this revelation, and the self-pity that set in as a result was overwhelming. He saw himself for who he was now: a man driven by a need to be needed, a man lacking principle, a man who cut people off when they couldn't give him what he needed. He was pathetic.

Sure, he could go back to D.C., pick up his life as usual, and try to be happy. Hang out more with old Army buddies, bang hot chicks he met at the bar, spend more time with Parker. The problem with that was…Bones. Once again. It always came back to her and the fact that she was absolutely embedded in his life. But as he envisioned this lifestyle for himself, it looked very, very attractive to him. He had always been the responsible one. Screw that. Hadn't seemed to work for him; hell, even Jared, the one who could never seem to get his act together, was married now. Jared was the one who had it all. Booth had nothing to show for his years of responsibility and commitment.

He needed a fresh start. He needed to extricate himself from this toxic swill of an existence he now led. Screw Bones, screw loving her, screw the Jeffersonian, screw murder, screw it all. It was time for some damn happiness and hope. Things were going to change. And, he realized, he didn't need her permission to make these changes. This was his life, and he needed her out of it.

He felt peace settle in his heart at the mere idea, and it felt good. He felt like he was making progress. His shoulders straightened with new resolve as he drank the last of his coffee. This time off was going to be good. He decided that it was time to shake off the angst, enjoy all that Phuket (and its nightlife – he smirked at the thought!) had to offer, and in a couple of weeks, he'd call Hacker and discuss his future at the FBI.

##########################

Three weeks had passed, and Brennan still had not heard from Booth. Phone calls, emails, and a few stops at his apartment on her part had netted nothing. He had simply disappeared. His colleagues didn't know where he was. Jared hadn't heard from him. She worried about him, but she kept her mind occupied with work as much as possible. Going home at night proved impossible. Reminders of him lingered everywhere she looked in her apartment, and, as a result, she pushed herself to work later and later, and stayed at the lab as much as possible. Angela reprimanded her for spending the nights on the couch in her office, but she insisted that she was better off there.

They had identified the body in Agent Page's case almost immediately; dental records had identified the victim as 23-year-old Carrie Reininger, the granddaughter of the couple whose garage she was discovered in. Cause of death had been determined to be extreme blunt force trauma by stoning, an ancient method of execution still used today in some Islamic countries where Sharia law is practiced. What was perplexing was that Carrie Reininger was Caucasian, and according to her grandparents, involved in a mainline Christian church. That the victim ended up in her grandparents' garage was also troubling, as if it was meant to send a message to them. This was no random act of violence. It was focused, specific, and purposeful. The trail to her killer was cold, and Brennan was reviewing the file once again to look for anything they might have missed that might provide a clue regarding who had done this to Carrie Reininger.

Brennan sensed someone approaching, and looked up from her notes as Cam poked her head through the doorway of her office.

"Dr. Brennan, do you have a minute? Agent Page is here. He's brought us another body."

Brennan rubbed her temples and stood. She was not in the mood to deal with Page and his attitude. She nodded to Cam and followed her out to the platform, where a swarm of agents were busy transferring the remains and sharing information with the Jeffersonian team. Agent Page was already on the platform overseeing the transfer, and, spotting Cam and Brennan, he made his way down the stairs to meet them.

"Dr. Saroyan." He shook Cam's hand, looking grim. "We've found another body. Same m.o. as our last vic: burned body found in a garage. The woman who made the discovery thinks it's her daughter."

Cam frowned. "We'll get right on it, Agent Page. We'll do everything in our power to identify and see if there's a connection between these two victims."

"I appreciate that, Dr. Saroyan."

Brennan bristled in his presence. He had yet to even acknowledge her standing there.

"Agent Page, I've been reviewing the Reininger file, and, while I have no evidence to support this theory, it seems as though the killer wanted to send a message to her grandparents. Reininger was stoned to death. That is a very specific and unique way to kill someone. If we find the same cause of death in this second victim, it could point to a religious group or, at the very least a murderer with religious motivations. Whether these murders were meant as revenge or as a…punishment of some sort directed at the parents, we need to determine the connection. I'd like to go with you to reinterview the parents. I believe that my anthropological expertise could be of value."

"Dr. Brennan, I have no interest in your theories. My team is already working these and other angles, and we have experts in Sharia law on the case as we speak. I need you to simply identify, find cause and manner of death, and we'll take it from there."

He turned and walked back up the platform and resumed the oversight of the transfer.

Cam was furious. "Dr. Brennan, thank you for your insights. Page's lack of respect is completely unacceptable. I have a meeting with Hacker in an hour; you can bet that I'll be speaking to him regarding Agent Page. I know this is hard for you, and I appreciate your commitment to the case in spite of being sidelined by this…Philistine."

Brennan smiled and thanked Cam for her support. She was about to make her way up the stairs to the platform when Cam touched her elbow.

"Dr. Brennan, wait. I just want you to know that, while I don't know what's going on with Booth, I know that this must be a difficult time for you. You've been putting in some long hours, and I think you need some… well, frankly, some 'girl' time. I'd really like to take you out to lunch today."

Brennan paused, almost giving into her default response of refusal, but if she was being honest with herself, she needed the break. She and Cam were not close, but she sensed an understanding from Cam that she hadn't considered before.

"I'd love to, Cam. Thank you."

Cam's face lit up, surprised and pleased at Brennan's acceptance. "Great! I will meet you at the Diner as soon as I finish with Hacker. It'll be 12:30 or better before I can get over there, if that's okay."

"That's fine, Cam. It'll give me time to get a preliminary examination completed, and I can have the interns work on cleaning the bones while I'm out."

Cam nodded and returned to her office. Brennan made her way to the platform, where Hodgins was collecting the particulates Clark and Wendell had set aside for him.

"Dr. B.! I might have some interesting evidence here. Wendell found what appears to be the exoskeleton of an insect stuck to the victim's parietal. Hopefully it will lead us to the original crime scene."

"Good work, Dr. Hodgins. Let me know what you find."

Hodgins nearly skipped with joy down the steps, and Brennan smiled. He was almost childlike in his passion for insects. It was endearing.

The team was just getting organized in their investigation when Brennan walked up to the table.

"Wendell, Clark, what do we have so far?" she asked clinically, snapping on her gloves as she approached.

Wendell and Clark both looked downcast. Wendell answered first:

"Dr. Brennan, it looks remarkably similar to our last victim. Victim is female. Same fracture patterns on the skull, clavicle, sternum, humerus, and ribs, indicating that she was buried from the waist down and struck repeatedly from all sides with blunt force. Cause of death is extreme trauma to the skull, but this one blow in particular to the temporal looks to be the one that finished her off."

"Thank you, Wendell. That was fast."

"It sort of helped that we've seen this before," Clark said.

"At any rate, I'd like you both to finish up your report, and then get the skull reconstruction finished so that Angela can work on identifying the remains."

They nodded their understanding, and Brennan left to find Angela.

########################

Hodgins caught Brennan as she passed by his area looking for Angela.

"Dr. B! I've identified the exoskeleton!" He was obviously proud of his find.

"Wonderful, Dr. Hodgins. Have you gained any insight on the crime scene?"

"They don't call me 'King of the Lab' for nothing!"

"Dr. Hodgins. Your findings?"

"Sorry," he said sheepishly. "The insect is an Asian stink bug, also known as the brown marmorated stink bug. It is native to China, Japan, or North Korea, and was first discovered here in the states a decade ago. Thing is, in the past year, it has been particularly bothersome to apple growers, wreacking havoc on crop farmers and fruit growers in Maryland's northern tier counties and West Virginia."

"That is indeed helpful, Dr. Hodgins. Thank you." He beamed at her affirmation. She smirked back in spite of herself. Her fondness for Hodgins had grown over the years, and especially now that he was taking such good care of Angela. He was good for her. Brennan was grateful to him for that.

Brennan turned to go. "Oh, Dr. B, I think Angela is looking for you. She just got back from lunch. She's in her office now."

"Thank you. I'll find her."

Brennan hurried to Angela's room, finding her hunched over her computer. Angela addressed Brennan without looking up.

"Our victim is Stacy White, aged 28. Didn't have to do the facial reconstruction. DNA confirmed it. It looks like she has a similar background to Carrie Reininger: Caucasian, single, college grad, not very active in the community but a regular churchgoer, stayed to herself. I'm still trying to figure out if there's a connection somewhere. So far, I'm coming up short."

Brennan sighed. "Thanks, Ange. I feel so trapped here, not able to gain insight from the families and the background they can provide. Just do what you can."

"Yeah, well, my plan is to crack this before Special Agent Douchebag and his team do. What's in the water over there, anyway? They've all got something majorly jammed up their asses. Frankly, I'm sick of them all."

"I couldn't agree more, Ange. Cam is with Hacker right now, hopefully setting him straight on a few things. I'm sure things will get better for us once she brings him in to the situation."

Brennan excused herself, headed to her office, and grabbed her bag. It was early and she was sure that Cam wouldn't be finished with her meeting, but she wanted to get out of the lab for a while and clear her mind.

The sky was dazzling, and while the air was still cool, the sun felt warm on her face. She decided to walk to the diner. Simply being outdoors lifted her spirits, and she made the decision then and there to try to get out of the lab each day for a break. It was necessary.

Halfway to the diner, Brennan's phone rang.

"Brennan," she answered.

"Sweetie. Why do you do that? You have Caller I.D. You know it's me calling."

Brennan laughed. "Sorry, Angela. I wasn't paying attention. Do you have something?"

"Actually, yeah. I checked Carrie's and Stacy's Facebook pages. Both of them list a common organization called 'Handmaidens of Mercy' under their favorite causes. This group is weird. I've done some checking, and it's pretty obscure. As far as I can tell, though, they're an extremist right wing group whose main purpose is to stage militant pro-life demonstrations. It looks like they're into God, guns, and babies. None of that is listed on their Facebook page, of course, but it's what I came up with when I dug a little further. I'll keep looking for more info."

"Good work, Angela. Let me know."

They signed off, and Brennan, who had arrived at the diner, went in and found a table.

Cam entered the diner exactly fifteen minutes later. She tossed her purse on the chair opposite Brennan and took off her jacket. "Well, it sounds like Hacker is pretty upset at Agent Page's harsh treatment of the fine people of the Jeffersonian. I think we'll be able to get you back out in the field, Dr. Brennan."

"Thanks, Cam. Although I am not sure that I want to spend extended amounts of time with Page. He is not all that pleasing to work with."

"Agreed. But at least we'll be allowed at crime scenes again."

They sat in silence for a few minutes, studying the menu to bridge the awkward gap in their conversation. Finally, Cam said, "So… how are you holding up? Have you… heard from him?" Then she blushed, thinking better of her decision to broach the subject of Booth. "You don't have to answer that if you don't want to."

"It's alright. No. I have not heard from him. I honestly don't know what to think about it, Cam. I'm worried about him, because the last time I saw him, he was inebriated and out of his mind."

"Well, he's a trained sniper and is a very good agent. I don't think he's in any kind of trouble," Cam said. "It just seems a little extreme for him to go off the deep end just because things with Hannah didn't work out."

Brennan looked down at her hands, then decided to tell Cam everything, starting with the night outside the Hoover when Booth told her he wanted to gamble on "them," and ending with the events that took place in his hallway three weeks ago.

Cam listened intently, and then pursed her lips in thought. "So, this isn't about Hannah at all. It's about you. He's running from his feelings for you, just like he's done for the past year."

Brennan nodded. "I suppose you are right, Cam. I'm afraid that my actions have suggested to him that I want nothing to do with him."

"Dr. Brennan, if he had actually been paying attention, he would not have taken things that way at all. He hasn't been around enough to notice. I've known Seeley for a long time. When he loves, he loves with his whole heart. Sometimes that heart gets in the way of common sense, and he sometimes he gets ahead of himself and can't see that he's running roughshod over the other person. Maybe this time away will give him some fresh perspective."

Brennan was playing with her straw wrapper and pondering Cam's words when she felt someone standing at her shoulder. Cam looked up at their visitor and said, "Dr. Sweets! It has been awhile. Would you care to sit?"

Sweets looked pained. "Actually, yes. I have just learned some news, and I wanted to find Dr. Brennan before she heard it from another source. Do you mind?"

Cam raised her eyebrows. "No, not at all. Is everything okay?"

Sweets paused, then sat, his shoulders hunched and his head bowed. He took a breath, then said, "Um, Dr. Brennan, have you heard from Booth at all?"

Brennan's blood ran cold. "No, Dr. Sweets. Please, what have you heard?"

"I received a memo this morning from the personnel department at the CIA requesting that Booth's psychological profile and all of his files be transferred to them. I immediately went to Hacker, who informed me that Booth is leaving the FBI. Apparently he has joined the counter-terrorism unit at the CIA in the homeland security division. He begins training at Camp Peary next week."

Brennan felt her extremities go numb and her heart rate spike. She looked at Cam, incredulous. "Cam, did you know about this? Did Hacker tell you?"

Cam shook her head. "I had no idea. Oh my god."

Brennan was devastated. Sweets looked at her sympathetically. "I'm sorry, Dr. Brennan. I just thought someone should tell you. He's still out of the country, and apparently he is flying directly to Virginia from wherever he is, where he'll train for the next six weeks. He'll be cut off from civilian contact while he's training. After that, there's no telling where they'll send him. I'm using my connections to try and find him right now. I want to talk to him; I want to find out what's up with him. Do you want me to pass on to you his contact information when I find it?"

Brennan was only half listening. She stared out the window in a daze, unable to breathe, feeling as if the room was closing in on her.

Booth had not only run, but he had made it impossible for her to reach out to him. Seeley Booth had effectively erased himself from her life.


	5. Chapter 5

_I worked my little tail off today to get an update in for you all! Y'all have been so sweet with your reviews and alerts! I may not be able to update tomorrow; it's my busiest day, but I promise I'll get a big, fat chapter up on Monday!_

_You guys are the best. Really._

Chapter 5

Booth left the beach hut and headed out for Patong Beach, legendary for its nightlife scene. It was his final night in Thailand; he was due in Virginia to begin training in less than seventy-two hours. He'd spent much of his trip relaxing on the beach and exploring the country. He'd frequented a few bars here and there, but had yet to fully experience the wonders of Patong. He needed a drink, and he'd heard about the bar girls who "waitressed" the beer bars of Bangla Road. He wanted to commemorate the end of his "Thai sabbatical," and felt that it was a perfect way to mark the beginning of his new life back home.

Turning down a side street, he passed several open air bars, each with scantly-clad Thai women perched out front, attempting to lure him with choruses of "Hello, welcome!" and pawing at him as he passed. He shook them off and kept walking until finding a brightly-lit, festive-looking place with plenty of American tourists, loud, '90's dance music, and decent beer. He squeezed in through the crowd and found the bar, which was adorned with girls in tiny skirts and go-go boots pole dancing atop its shiny white surface, and, stepping up, ordered a local brew.

"Where you from?" the patron next to him shouted over the thumping music. By far the most sober-looking customer besides Booth himself, the guy was almost certainly a fellow soldier.

Booth grinned. "D.C. You?"

"Fort Hood, currently. Some of my buddies and I are here on leave. They took off with some girls about an hour ago, though, so I'm warming the seats here till they get back."

"Army, huh? Me too. Well, I'm out now…" Booth said, extending his hand. "Seeley Booth. 75th Ranger Regiment and Special Forces. You?"

"Colonel Jason Knott, 69th Air Defense Artillery Brigade. What brings you to Patong? You here alone?"

"Yeah. This was the farthest place from home I could think of," answered Booth, sitting down heavily on the bar stool next to his new acquaintance.

"Mmm. Running from life. Lemme guess: bad marriage?"

"Something like that," Booth said, turning away as a cute bar girl approached, signaling that the topic was not open for further discussion.

The girl handed Booth his beer and put her tray on the bar. She leaned in and and said, "Hello handsome! My name is Chariya." She sat down on his knee, her tiny skirt leaving nothing to the imagination as she made herself comfortable on his lap. "Where are you boys from?"

Booth grinned at Knott and lied for both of them. "We're from Canada. We're both soldiers there."

Chariya put her hands on Booth's chest. "Oooooh, you are very handsome and strong. Do you have Thai girlfriend?"

Booth shifted under her and put his hands on her waist, sizing her up. "Not yet, but I'm sure I will soon enough."

"Do you handsome soldiers want to show me how strong you are? Would you like to play a game with me?"

Booth glanced at his new drinking buddy, who elbowed him in the ribs and grinned.

"I guess that's a yes," Booth answered.

The girl smiled broadly, then stood and took him by the hand, guiding them through the crowd towards the back of the room, where a large, tabletop-high tree stump sat. Its surface was covered with hundreds of spent nails. Chariya picked up a chisel-pointed hammer that was sitting on the table, and reached into her apron to pull out two large nails. She handed Booth and Knott the nails, and then waved the hammer at them.

"You put the nail all the way in with one hit, you win. If you don't, you have to buy me drink."

Booth and Knott agreed, and Booth threw back his beer in one gulp while Chariya tapped each of their nails into the wood at an equal height. Then she handed the hammer to Booth, who stepped up to the stump.

"Hey, hold up," Knott said, stepping up next to Booth. "What do you say we make this a little more… interesting?" He pulled a 1000 baht note out of his wallet and laid it on the stump.

Booth paused briefly, then laughed heartily in assent. "You're on, man." He pulled a matching bill out of his pocket and laid it next to Knott's.

"Okay, handsome soldier! Show me your stuff!" Chariya shouted, slapping Booth on the butt.

Booth raised the hammer and took aim, and then dropped it with all of his might, driving the nail three-quarters of the way into the wood.

Chariya clapped and cheered. "Not bad for first try! Now it's your friend's turn!"

Knott repeated Booth's motion, driving the nail only halfway into the stump. He cursed good-naturedly and laughed. "Guess that one goes to you, brother." Booth picked up the money from the table, shaking down the feelings of guilt that emerged.

Knott handed the hammer to Chariya. "Alright, sweetheart. Show us what you're made of."

She lifted the hammer and swung it fiercely, skillfully driving the nail all the way into the stump. She smiled sweetly. "You buy me drinks now!" Booth handed her one of the bills and ordered shots all around, and instructed her to keep them coming.

Several hours later, Booth was solidly drunk, was up 8000 baht, and Knott was out of money. He wished Booth well, told him to look him up next time he was in Texas, and headed out to find his compadres, leaving Booth alone with Chariya. She had taken up permanent residence on his lap, and once they were alone, she nuzzled his neck and said, "You want to take me out on a date?"

Booth nodded blearily, tossed back one more shot, and said, "Where are we going?"

"Dancing! Then you take me home with you. But first, you have to pay bar fine so that I can leave."

Booth agreed, paid the fine, and set out with Chariya to enjoy his last night in Thailand, half-conscious but thoroughly enjoying himself. The night was only going to get better, he thought as they stepped into the nighttime cacophony of Bangla Road.

############################

Brennan sat at her desk, absentmindedly thumbing through the files of Carrie Reininger and Stacy White. She resisted the urge to check her email again; she knew that there would be nothing from Booth. She was numb, dazed, and found that she was unable to focus on even her work, the one constant on which she could usually rely when she was feeling lost.

Angela had uncovered a few more bits of information on the Handmaidens of Mercy, but not enough to tie the two victims to the group or gain even information on where the group was based. Hodgins immediately took an interest in the group, his obsession with ultra-secret groups with a militia bent making it impossible for him to ignore. What little information they had come up with had been forwarded to Agent Page, who refused to take their findings seriously.

Just then, Brennan's phone chirped, alerting her to an incoming text. It was from Cam:

"_Hey. Another body in Alexandria. Similar scene as the other two. Page called me. I'm headed to the crime scene now. Can you meet me there? Bring Hodgins."_

Brennan immediately sent a reply that she was on her way. She gathered her kit, changed from her labcoat to her jumpsuit and gumboots, and hurried to Hodgins' area.

"Dr. Hodgins, we have to go. Cam needs us in Alexandria. Another body has been discovered."

"We are actually going to the crime scene? Cam really did work her magic with Hacker, huh?"

Brennan frowned. "I find that I am deeply troubled that we've got two sets of remains in one day, if in fact this is the same killer. Who knows how many more there could be?"

"Dr. B, if anyone can track this guy down, it's us. This time, at least, we can investigate the way we're used to: without being confined to the lab and blown off by some jerk with a power trip."

They hurried out of the lab, loaded up Brennan's car, and made their way to the crime scene.

#######################

Agent Page stood in the driveway, hands in his pockets and glaring at them as Brennan pulled up to the scene. She stepped out of the car, and he was at her side in two steps.

"Dr. Brennan. Dr. Saroyan may have gone over my head, but that doesn't give you and your people free reign here. This is my crime scene, and you will follow all FBI protocols and follow the orders of my people to the letter. Is that clear?"

"Agent Page, I am this country's leading forensic anthropologist. I know how to treat a crime scene better than most of 'your' people. I have been working crime scenes longer than a lot of your people have been eating solid food. I would appreciate it if you would let us do our job. I need to see the remains undisturbed as they were discovered, and my team needs to observe the scene before your people begin their work and compromise the remains. If you have a problem with that, I'm sure we can call A.D. Hacker and find out what he wants to do."

Page stared her down, face red, fist balled at his sides. "I don't know how Booth worked with you for so long, but it's no wonder he called it quits. You truly are everything they say you are." He turned to walk back up the driveway. "I want you finished in thirty minutes, Dr. Brennan." He stalked off to inform his team of the change in plans.

Brennan looked at Hodgins, who rolled his eyes, and they set off together towards the garage.

Cam was kneeling over the charred body when they arrived. She looked up solemnly at them and said, "Looks like the same guy has struck again. Victim is female, 26 years of age, can't tell race yet, but I'm assuming Caucasian. Looks to have had blonde hair like the other two…" she lifted a few remaining strands of hair off of the skull with the pen she was holding, "and the homeowners – Greg and Shannon Metzger - say that the ring on her finger was one they gave to her on her sixteenth birthday. It's most likely their daughter, Samantha."

They all set out to perform their regular duties, falling into the familiar rhythm of collecting evidence, describing their findings to each other, and bagging pertinent items. Brennan finished her tasks and exited the garage. She headed down the driveway toward her car, where she found Page talking to a grieving middle-aged couple. As she approached, she could hear the woman crying.

"I just wish I could have seen her again. She was so involved in that church of hers, and she insisted on moving in with one of her friends from there. We never saw her much after that."

"Mrs. Metzger, what was the name of the church your daughter attended?" Brennan asked.

Agent Page interrupted. "Dr. Brennan, that's not relevant. I'm sorry, Mrs. Metzger. You said your daughter had a habit of jogging late at night? Was there a particular park she liked to frequent?"

Shannon Metzger looked tearfully at Brennan, then back at Page. "Oh, um, she liked to go to Holmes Run. Do you think that's where she was killed?"

"We are looking at every angle in this case, but our profiler believes this may be a serial killer. We believe your daughter was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. We may need to ask you more questions at a later time, but for now, that is all. I'll keep you posted on our investigation."

Page shook the Metzger's hands, then grabbed Brennan's arm and roughly pulled her down the driveway.

"Dr. Brennan," he spat under his breath, "If you _ever _interrupt an interview of mine again, I will have you taken off of this and all future cases. You have no right to inject your theories in this case. You do not have all the facts, and it is unprofessional for you to insert yourself in that manner."

Brennan yanked free from his grasp. "And it is irresponsible for you to assume that this is a serial killer. Moreover, it is _beyond_ unprofessional to posit _your_ theories to the victim's family before we've even left the crime scene. If I didn't know better, Agent Page, I'd say that you're more interested in closing this case quickly than you are actually stopping the killer."

Page forcefully grabbed Brennan's shoulders, his face close enough to hers that she could feel his breath hot on her face. "How dare you, bitch!" he hissed, eyes bulging with rage. Brennan's martial arts instincts kicked in, and her arms flew upward, breaking his hold on her. Without thinking, she landed a right hook to his face and a swift, paralyzing blow to his groin, dropping him instantly.

Five agents were upon them instantly, and within seconds she was pushed to the ground and cuffed.

"Dr. Brennan!" shrieked Cam, running down the driveway. "Get her out of those cuffs NOW!" she shouted at the agents.

One of the agents looked at her incredulously. "Sorry, but she assaulted a federal agent. I have to take her in." He pulled Brennan up and hauled her to the back seat of a bureau car. Page was practically foaming at the mouth with hatred. He stood, pushing aside the agents who had rushed to his aid, yanked open his cell phone, and placed a call to his friends at the District Attorney's office.

Cam, sensing that things were about to get very ugly for Brennan, flipped open her phone and dialed the exact same number as Page. It was time to call in a favor from her old friend Caroline Julian.


	6. Chapter 6

_Happy Bones week, everyone! Here is a new chapter for you. I am obsessing over this story now, and have all sorts of crazy and fun ideas for our characters. Stay tuned! And thanks for all the awesome and hilarious reviews!_

_I said it at the beginning, but feel that I should mention again that I do not own Bones or any of its characters. I am, however, deeply indebted to Reichs, Hanson, and Nathan for providing such amazing characters for me to play with! _

Chapter 6

Brennan sat in the holding room at the FBI, twisting in the metal chair in an attempt to find a comfortable position. No amount of threatening, cajoling, or sweet-talking on Cam's part had convinced Page to at least remove the handcuffs; he was incensed at Brennan's humiliation of him, and he was determined to make her pay for it as long as he was able.

It had been over an hour since she had been brought in. Caroline was supposedly on her case, and she was sure that between the feisty prosecutor and Cam, her cause would be well represented to Hacker. She had been staring at the stark grey walls of the familiar interrogation room with no word from the outside world, and it was beginning to wear on her.

She had not visited the FBI building since Booth's disappearance, but his presence seemed to be woven into the fabric of everyday life in this place, and she repeatedly caught herself expecting him to come barging through the door and break her out. The silence was deafening without him here, her loneliness magnified by his absence.

She was alone with only her thoughts. There was no work in which to bury her emotions, no bones to occupy her mind, no colleague with whom to dissertate. As she stared at the sterile walls of the room in which she and Booth had worked together so often, she was suddenly crushed by the devastating realization that she desperately missed him. Her throat constricted as her breathing seized, and she suppressed a sob as she allowed herself to feel the loss of her best friend for the first time.

_This can't be happening_, she thought. _This is not right._ Booth was being irrational, selfish, and unfair, and he had gone out of his way to make sure that she was unable to reach him. He knew nothing of the motives behind her actions; he had no clue that she had behaved the way she did to save him from himself. He knew nothing of her heart – something that she now understood to be more than just a metaphor for love, thanks to him – and how she desired, despite her greatest fears, to open herself to him.

She let the tears fall for a few moments, allowing herself to grieve, until she realized that she did not want Agent Page or his team to enter and find her crying. She breathed deeply, shook off the suffocating despair, and pushed the raw emotions back into the recesses of her being.

After collecting herself for a few minutes, she decided that, when she was released, she would make an attempt to communicate with him. She had to try. After that, it was up to him, and she resolved that she would be ready to move on if he chose not to return to her life.

################################

Booth's eyes snapped open well before sunrise, his thoughts immediately on Bones before he was awake enough to realize it. A pang of guilt rocketed through him, and he sat up, heart pounding, her face haunting him. _Go to hell, Bones_, he thought. He dragged his hand across the scruff on his face, through his hair, and grimaced when he realized that his head was pounding. He fell back onto the pillow as his bed partner turned in her sleep, sighing contentedly and snaking her arm across his chest. Startled, he jumped at her touch. Chariya. He didn't remember bringing her back to his room last night. He vaguely remembered leaving the beer bar with her, negotiating a price for her "companionship" for the evening, and hitting a disco, but everything went hazy after that.

He felt like shit. Worse than the headache and the accompanying nausea, he was wracked with guilt and shame. Was this how people usually felt after a night like this? Maybe this no-strings-attached thing wasn't his bag. He always did suffer from an extra dose of good, old-fashioned Catholic guilt. Maybe he just wasn't cut out for this lifestyle. Or, maybe after awhile, you just stopped caring, he thought.

He glanced at his watch. _Shit! _His plane would be leaving in two hours! He gently extricated himself from Chariya so as not to wake her, and then flew to the bathroom, where he showered and shaved in record time. He was haphazardly stuffing his clothes into his suitcase when the light began trickling in through the windows, rousing Chariya from her slumber.

"Good morning, handsome. You want me before you go?"

"No, Chariya," he mumbled, unable to look at her. He closed his suitcase and went into the bathroom. She leapt out of bed and stood in the doorway, watching him as he tossed his personal items into his bag.

"You are a VERY good lover, Mr. Soldier. Will you keep in touch with me? Be my boyfriend?"

"Can't, Chariya. Sorry."

She pouted, but turned and retrieved her clothes from the foot of the bed. She dressed without saying a word, but when he came back into the bedroom, she went to him and put her arms around his waist.

"You come back and visit me, ok?"

He mumbled thanks for showing him a good time and freed himself from her grasp. He picked up his bags and turned to go. She followed him out the door, clumsily pulling her shoes on as she stepped out onto the front porch. He was already halfway down the sidewalk, headed for the checkout desk, telling himself that his rush was less about trying to escape her and more about catching his plane. She called after him:

"What's your name? You never tell me your name!"

He kept walking, and without turning around, smirked to himself and called back to her:

"Lance Sweets."

#############################################

The door to the interrogation room flew open, revealing the larger-than-life presence that was Caroline Julian. Arms crossed and lips pursed, she stood in the doorway and stared Brennan down with a look of admonishment. Brennan gave her a lopsided smile.

Caroline sighed heavily and stepped into the room. "Cherie, I hope you know what you've gotten yourself into this time. This sonofabitch agent is bound and determined to make life a living hell for you and your people at the lab. Thankfully, Hacker is madly in love with me, and I was able to convince him to let you go and drop any and all charges brought against you."

"Thank you, Caroline. When can I leave? I have a lot to work on. Have the remains made it to the lab?"

"Oh, no you don't, cherie. I'm afraid you're on fossil duty for the duration of this case. You're not allowed to even _think_ about the remains – or anything else related to this case, for that matter. A.D. Hacker is allowing your geek squad to work their magic, but in order to keep Page happy, you're on the bench."

Brennan launched into a string of protests, but Caroline cut her off. "Uh-uh, cherie. You need to be happy that you are still blessed with the opportunity to work with this fine government agency in which we're standing. Agent Page was demanding that the Jeffersonian's ties with the Bureau be severed. Now, I suggest you take the rest of the day off, enjoy this beautiful spring weather we're currently experiencing, and tomorrow morning, you can play with your ancient bones all day." She turned to go.

"Thank you again, Caroline."

Caroline stopped in the doorway and faced Brennan, her expression softer. "Cherie, I know that a certain someone is MIA, and you currently do not have anyone to save your ass from getting into trouble. I'm happy to help. And, for the record, I hope you and that certain someone get your damn drama all worked out. I know everyone will be a lot happier when you do." She stepped into the hallway and stopped in front of the agent who was guarding the door, looking at him with disgust. "You gonna take those cuffs off of her? She's free to go. Don't make me rip those keys from your girly-ass belt!"

Brennan waited as the guard freed her from her constraints. She rubbed her wrists, which were sore and chafed, and followed the agent out down the hallway towards her freedom. As soon as her purse and phone were returned to her, she called Angela and Hodgins to bring her car. She realized that it would be at least half an hour before they would arrive, so she took the elevator to the fourth floor, suddenly feeling the need to visit Booth's office.

When the elevator doors opened, Sweets was standing in the hallway as if he had been expecting her.

"Dr. Brennan! I was just coming down to find you. How… how are you? Sounds like you've had a rough day."

"You could say that, Dr. Sweets. I was just… I was waiting on Angela to bring my car and thought…." She dipped her head sheepishly as she stepped into the corridor.

"You were coming to Booth's office, weren't you? It's empty. Someone cleared his stuff out two days ago."

She sighed, resigned, and sat on the bench next to the elevator. "I guess I was foolish to think his things would still be in there. I was hoping – irrationally – that everything would still be the way he left it, and that none of this was really happening. But it is, isn't it?" Her blue eyes reflected more heartache than Sweets had ever seen. He understood – he knew her abandonment issues, and he knew better than she did her feelings for the man who had deserted her. He empathized with her as her psychologist; as a friend, he pitied her.

"Dr. Brennan, have you tried to communicate with Booth since he's been gone?"

She listed the numerous ways in which she had.

Sweets hesitated, searching the ceiling tiles for the best course of action to recommend. "I don't know where he has been, but I do know he is getting back into town either tonight or tomorrow. He starts training tomorrow afternoon at Camp Peary. It may be worth a shot to stop by his apartment and at least leave a note. He hasn't returned any of my calls, either, but I'm deeply concerned about his state of mind. Someone has to reach him."

Brennan nodded and thanked him, and, deciding against torturing herself with his empty office, headed back downstairs to wait in the lobby for Angela.

##############################

It was almost four o'clock by the time Angela rushed into the waiting area. 

"Oh, Bren, sweetie. Are you okay?" She hugged Brennan tightly.

"I'm quite alright, Ange. Thank you. I just want to go home."

"Page is such a jerk. Listen, I heard that Hacker kicked you off the case, but you have _got_ to hear what Clark found. He and Wendell were going over the remains, and they found charred hair and skin from what looks like two other victims attached to the body of the newest victim. We think that there are more bodies out there. Clark seems to think that maybe they were killed and cremated together, in some sort of mass execution or something. Ew!"

Brennan agreed. "Other remains attached to this victim would indicate that the bodies were likely stacked on top of each other when they were set afire. Did Clark tell Page?"

"Yes, and Page is investigating, but damn, Bren. This is so much bigger than we thought. This is just awful."

"Yes, it is. Look, Angela, I know that I'm not supposed to be investigating this, but will you please keep me apprised of what they come up with? Page seems to be most interested in pursuing the serial killer theory in this, but from all the anthropological evidence we've gathered, it is more likely that this is a cult or a militia group. We have to make sure that, regardless of Page and his incompetence, justice is served for these victims. There could be others whose lives are in danger at this very moment."

"Of course, sweetie. I'm totally with you. But for now, seriously, you need to go home and chill out. You look terrible."

"I will, Ange." They stepped outside into the late afternoon sun and walked together to the curb where Hodgins was waiting for Angela in their car. Angela handed Brennan her keys, hugged her goodbye, and Brennan climbed into her car, knowing that she had a stop to make before she headed home for the evening.

###################################

Brennan circled Booth's neighborhood four times before gathering her wits to park. Her stomach was aflutter as she eased her car to a stop at the curb opposite his building, and she took several calming breaths before turning off the engine and stepping out onto the sidewalk.

Everything inside her screamed that she was being foolish, that this was a mistake, and that she should just let him have his way. What if he was, by some remote chance, actually home? What would she say to him? The idea of having to be the one to take the emotional initiative was terrifying to her, and her flight instinct was on overdrive.

She took another deep breath and forced her feet to step off the curb, cross the street, and enter his building.

####################################

Booth was exhausted. His body was eleven hours ahead of local DC time, and he had been in the air for an entire day. The plane slowly taxied to its gate, and he wrestled with how to spend the next twenty-four hours. He was not glad to be home, not looking forward to spending the night in his empty apartment, but eager to begin a new chapter in his life with the CIA. He wished he could skip ahead to tomorrow and to the start of training. The longer he spent in familiar surroundings, the more the harsh reminders of his pathetic life would invade his psyche.

He wearily shoved through the airport crowd and claimed his bag, then hailed a cab, still unsure of his immediate destination. On one hand, he needed a shower and needed to retrieve his cell phone, but the thought of going back to the place with so many bad vibes was out of the question. No, he needed to get drunk first. He told the driver his destination, a shitty bar that was walking distance to his apartment. He knew the bar had his brand of beer on tap, pool tables, and, best of all, it was a place that no one he knew would dare set foot in.

Satisfied with his plan, he sat back in the seat and closed his eyes. He wanted to sleep, but, if he was truly honest with himself, he needed to shut out the familiar sights as he whizzed past in the cab. There were too many memories here, and they all reminded him of Bones.

#################################

Brennan stood at the front door of Booth's apartment, heart beating violently inside of her chest. She steeled herself, knocked tentatively on his door, and waited. She heard no sign of movement inside, so she waited a few seconds and knocked again. Nothing. Feeling confident that his apartment was empty, she pulled her key ring out of her pocket, located his key, which she had forgotten until recently that she still had, and unlocked the door.

She was not prepared for the scene that lay before her when she entered the apartment. The place was a mess. Countless empty beer bottles were strewn about the room, many of which were broken on the floor in the middle of the room. A bottle of Scotch, only a shot or two left, sat open on the floor next to the couch. What concerned her most was the trail of blood that originated at one of the broken bottles on the floor and led to the bathroom, where there was a large spot of dried blood on the floor in front of the sink. In his bedroom, his clothes were scattered everywhere – on the bed, on the floor, over his desk chair – obviously pulled out and discarded in a frenzy to pack. His nightstand was littered with empty bottles of beer, aspirin scattered about, its empty bottle cast off and forgotten on the floor, and a prescription bottle of hydrocodone sitting with its lid off next to his bedside lamp. She snatched up the bottle and was relieved to find it nearly full; at least he had not attempted to overdose himself.

His apartment gave her shocking insight into Booth's mental state after he had slammed the door in her face that disastrous night three weeks ago. Obviously, his anguish had shifted into a state of manic overdrive, and she realized that her "gut feeling" (_Booth's phrase_, she thought wryly) regarding his safety was accurate. That he had taken flight immediately following such an episode concerned her greatly, and she worried about where he might have ended up, having made up his mind to leave under such extreme distress.

She sat down on his bed, its sheets a mess and still faintly smelling of his scent, and the reality of the situation hit her once again. Booth was beyond heartbroken. He was in trouble. She loved him, and was more comfortable admitting that to herself now, but regardless of how things ended up for them, she was resolute in her knowledge that her unconditional friendship was her first priority. She would not push him, but she also would not run. She was done with that.

She looked around the room, assessing the scene, and the stood and took off her jacket. Reaching into her pocket, she pulled out a hair band that she always kept handy, pulled back her hair, and began picking up his clothes, neatly folding or hanging them and returning them to their appropriate spot. She stripped his bed and replaced the sheets with a fresh set that she found in his linen closet, straightened the comforter, and fluffed his pillows. She tidied the nightstand and dusted, then, satisfied that his room was back to its normal, orderly state, moved to the kitchen to set about the daunting task ahead of her.

It was well after dark when she emptied the last dustpan full of glass into the trash, and, scanning the room, felt confident that her work was finished. Glancing at her watch, she was stunned to see what time it was, and she panicked momentarily at the thought that he could walk through the door at any moment. She briefly entertained the idea of waiting for him, but figured that it would only make things worse. Deciding that a note would be best, she located a notepad and pen in his desk, and, resisting the urge to pour out her soul, simply wrote:

"_Booth,_

_Please call me. We need to talk. I don't believe you have all the facts, and I know that you misunderstood my "heart." _

_I'll be at home tonight and tomorrow. _

_-Bones"_

A thousand other words begged to be written, but she refused to grovel or brood over him on paper. She laid the note on the table, where he would be sure to see it when he came in, gathered her things, and let herself out, ready to make her way home, prepared for what might prove to be a very long night.


	7. Chapter 7

_Had to share this song with you guys because it is the soundtrack to my story, and specifically to this chapter. It totally slays me….. look it up on grooveshark or youtube and have a listen. Total Bones song, the lyrics are SO appropriate for where our favorite would-be couple is right now, and if Hart Hanson doesn't use it at some point on Bones I think I just might die. _

_**Poison and Wine**_

_**By The Civil Wars**_

_You only know what I want you to  
I know everything you don't want me to  
Oh your mouth is poison, your mouth is wine  
Oh you think your dreams are the same as mine  
_

_Oh I don't love you but I always will  
Oh I don't love you but I always will  
Oh I don't love you but I always will  
I always will_

I wish you'd hold me when I turn my back  
The less I give the more I get back  
Oh your hands can heal, your hands can bruise  
I don't have a choice but I still choose you  


_Oh I don't love you but I always will  
Oh I don't love you but I always will  
Oh I don't love you but I always will  
Oh I don't love you but I always will  
Oh I don't love you but I always will  
Oh I don't love you but I always will  
Oh I don't love you but I always will  
I always will  
I always will  
I always will  
I always will  
I always will_

**Chapter 7**

Brennan crossed the street toward her car, realizing that she was emotionally spent. Just being in Booth's apartment, surrounded by his things, was devastatingly brutal. The chill of the early spring wind whipped at her, and she pulled her jacket around her and blinked back the tears that stung her eyes. She collapsed into the front seat of her cars and pulled the door closed, dropping her head back on the headrest and allowing the tears to finally fall in the privacy of the darkness.

She sat there emptying her soul for a good while, until she finally had nothing more within her. Feeling a bit better after her cathartic release, she wiped her eyes and reached for the ignition switch to begin her short trek across town to her apartment. She was about to pull out of her parking spot when she noticed a familiar silhouette reeling towards her on the opposite sidewalk, obviously drunk. She squinted into the darkness to get a better look, but she knew those shoulders and that distinct gait. It was definitely Booth.

She slammed on the brakes and threw open her door, and within seconds she was tearing across the street towards him.

"Booth!" He didn't look up. "Booth!" She screamed his name, louder this time, her voice betraying her relief and desperation.

He stopped, as if he recognized her voice, then looked around for an escape. Finding none, he continued on his drunken path as if he hadn't heard her.

"Booth!" She yelled again as she reached his side. Without thinking, she threw her arms around him, causing him to drop the heavy travel bag on his shoulder. "God, Booth, where have you been?" He reeked of alcohol and stumbled under her weight, but he quickly stiffened and wrestled himself away from her. He looked horrible. He had lost probably ten pounds, she thought, and his clothes were terribly disheveled. His hair was a mess, and deep lines that she could tell were a result of stress, no sleep, and large amounts of alcohol marked his face.

"Leave me alone, Bones," he grumbled, and shoved past her towards his apartment again, leaving her there on the sidewalk in stunned silence. She came to her senses and caught up to him, grabbing his arm. "Booth…."

He spun around with lightning speed, fueled by rage, and jerked his arm from her grasp. He closed the distance between them, his face only centimeters from hers, and glared at her with sheer disgust in his eyes.

"Don't. touch. me." His words came out as a fierce whisper, and their intensity chilled her to the bone.

"B…Booth, listen to me…" she wavered.

"No, you listen to _me_, TEMPERANCE," he growled through his teeth, jaw locked tight like a vice. "I want you to leave me alone. I don't want to see you. I don't want to talk to you. I don't want to be with you. I don't want you in my life. I don't even want to _look_ at you. Do you understand? I'm done with you! I'm tired of your shit, I'm tired of our partnership, and I'm tired of trying to figure you out. Now leave me the hell alone and let me go home."

He spun on his heel and stormed into his building, leaving her utterly shattered in his wake.

################################

Booth slammed his front door shut, dropped his bag on the floor with a _thud_, and drove a sudden, forceful punch into the wall next to him. The pain seared through his fingers and up his arm, but he didn't care. Damn that woman. What the hell was she doing here? Now she was stalking him? Why couldn't she just go away? Angry tears pricked his eyes and he hit the wall again. _Fuck._

He fell against the wall in exasperation, forehead pressed against the cool plaster, and tried to slow the choking gulps of air that threatened to become sobs – he was not going to cry like a baby over _anyone. _ He gathered his wits, took a few more deep inhalations, shook the impending sorrow from his body, and stumbled towards the bedroom. His head hurt, his back was killing him from the day's travel, and he wanted nothing more than to pass out and forget this day.

He was confused when he crossed the threshold into his bedroom and saw it completely clean, bed made, clothes put away. He was too impaired and too tired to care; he was just grateful to be this close to sleep. Kicking off his shoes, he fell onto his bed and promptly lost consciousness.

###############################

Brennan awoke the next morning with a massive headache, having only dozed on and off through the night. She had cried mostly, this time unable to rationalize her tears away, and was now feeling numb and depressed. The scene with Booth on the street had replayed all night in her mind, each time subjecting her to a fresh cocktail of emotion – hurt, shock, anger, fear, regret, pity, hope, and finally, despair. She could not shake the despondency that overcame her now, and she lay in bed paralyzed by its grasp.

Her cell phone rang, and she did not have the emotional wherewithal to find it and answer it. She let it go to voicemail, pulled the covers over her head and closed her eyes, willing herself to go back to sleep.

Her phone rang again a few minutes later, and she ignored it. She had no interest in talking to anyone. She couldn't bring herself to talk about what had happened with Booth. Not yet. She rolled over onto her stomach and buried her head under her pillow, hiding from the daylight that was leaking in through her curtains. She ran through the names of each bone in the human body, forcing her thoughts to focus on her science. She even resorted to counting sheep, desperately trying to go back to sleep.

When her phone rang a third time, she groaned and rolled out of bed. She snatched it up angrily, expecting to see Sweets' or Angela's name, but it was Cam. She sighed and answered, grateful that it was most likely business, not personal.

"Hello?" she answered, trying to sound stronger than she was feeling.

There was a pause on the other end. "Um, Dr. Brennan?" Cam asked hesitatingly.

"Yes?"

"Oh, I'm sorry – I've just never heard you answer your phone with a 'hello' before. Is everything… are you alright?"

"I am fine," Brennan lied. She never lied, but she desperately wanted to avoid talking about Booth at this moment. "What's going on?"

"Well, I thought you should know that the other remains we found embedded in the victim are definitely from two different people. We've been running DNA to try and find a match in the missing persons database, but so far, we've come up short. But the main reason I called you was to tell you about my meeting with Hacker this morning."

"What happened? Did he decide to cut our ties with the FBI after all? If so, I'm really, really sorry, Cam."

"No, that's just it. Page has been suspended. One of his agents apparently had an attack of conscience, went to Hacker about how Page manhandled you before you hit him. Hacker hit the roof – I'm sure he still has a sweet spot for you – and he threw Page out on his ear."

"So does this mean I can work the case again?" Brennan was hopeful, needing a diversion.

"Officially, no, but our new FBI liaison is coming in to meet us this morning at ten, if you'd like to meet him. I know this guy, and he's reasonable. I think he'll be much easier to work with, and I'm sure he'll want your expertise on the case. Good-looking, too."

Brennan was relieved, and told Cam she'd be there in an hour. She ended the call and headed for the shower, eager to get back to work, desperate to forget, if even for a few hours, the events of the previous evening.

#########################

The migrane made its presence known before Booth even opened his eyes. His pillow felt like lead, and his neck was killing him. He cursed himself for not having the forethought or the discipline to avoid a hangover on the day he was supposed to report for training at the CIA.

He sat up in bed and squinted into the blinding morning light, looking around his room. He had not been imagining things last night; his room was clean, his sheets had been changed, and, as he pulled himself from his bed and hobbled into the kitchen, he realized that the destructive mess he had left three weeks ago had been cleared away. At first, he wondered if Hannah had come back, having felt bad about turning down his proposal, until he remembered that she was in Libya covering the upheaval there.

He grabbed a glass from his cabinet and filled it to the brim with water, immediately drank it all, and refilled it. He grabbed the bottle of ibuprofen from the counter and shuffled to the kitchen table. He swallowed the pills he had meted out for himself, finished his water, and lay his head down on the table.

He suddenly remembered the events of the previous evening, although it came back to him in snatches, as if it had been something he'd dreamt. He'd seen Bones. He'd been with Bones. Oh, god, he'd yelled at Bones, told her to get the hell out of his life. And he'd meant it. He remembered being so angry that he wanted to shake her. How dare she lie in wait for him outside his apartment! How dare she pretend that she cared! But she seemed desperate, penitent. Her eyes were so full of hurt – did she not get it? He raised his head, suddenly awake and full of the vitriol that filled him last night, and he clenched his fist in anger as he thought of how pathetic she was.

Something on the floor caught his eye, and he bent down and picked up a yellow page from his legal pad. It looked blank, but he turned it over and saw her familiar scrawl on the other side.

"_Booth,_

_Please call me. We need to talk. I don't believe you have all the facts, and I know that you misunderstood my "heart." _

_I'll be at home tonight and tomorrow. _

_-Bones"_

He was momentarily confused at how the note ended up on the floor, until he remembered that she still had a key. Then it dawned on him: she was the one who had cleaned in here. She had been in his apartment. She had seen what he'd done to the place. No wonder she was worried, he thought. It had looked like a murder scene in here.

He reread the note, conflicted. He did want to cut her off, he was certain of that, but his resolve softened a bit as he read her words and remembered how her face looked last night - beautiful, heartbroken, worried. And she was still trying to look after him by making sure his place was set in order before he came home.

Confusion paralyzed him, and his head throbbed as he vacillated between hatred and appreciation for Bones. He did not have time for this. He could have been nicer last night, he supposed, but he really was making the best decision for both of them. It would be so easy to go to her, to beg her forgiveness for being a jerk, to fall right back into their old patterns. But with Hannah out of the picture, he did not trust his heart. He knew that Hannah had been nothing but a buffer – he had brought her back to shield himself from his true feelings about Bones. As long as he had a girlfriend, he had an excuse to make himself scarce. Now, there was nothing standing in between them, and he knew how it would eventually be: him wanting Bones, and Bones running from him. He could not take any more heartache, and it seemed that she had been the source of his for far too long.

He crumpled the note and tossed it into the waste bin, then found his cell phone and laptop and plugged them in to charge. Deciding that he needed to turn his focus to his upcoming training at Camp Peary, he staggered to the shower.

######################################

Brennan made it into the lab around nine and ducked into her office, attempting a stealthy entrance. As she laid her bag on the couch, however, she was startled to see Angela sitting there, waiting for her.

"Sweetie," she said softly. "I heard that Booth is back in town. You look awful. I assume you saw him?"

"How did you hear that Booth is back?" Brennan asked.

"Sweets."

Brennan walked to her desk and paused, her back to Angela, willing herself to remain calm and professional. She turned to face Angela and looked at her with determination.

"Angela, I need to be fully present here at work today. I desperately want to focus on evidence, case files, and remains, and nothing else right now." Her eyes welled with tears, and she clenched her teeth to stave them off. "I can't do this. I can't deal with Booth right now. Please, I am begging you, help me to do that today."

Angela was stunned to see such raw honesty from Brennan, and nodded slowly. "Okay. But promise me that we'll talk. I do care, sweetie, and I'm here to help in any way I can."

Brennan nodded in silence and shook off the heaviness of the moment. She rounded her desk, sitting down to assess the pile of files and messages that had collected there since yesterday. "Anything new?"

"No, but you heard that we have a new FBI guy?"

Bones nodded, cringing at Angela's words – the very words Booth had used when he threatened to dissolve their partnership three weeks ago.

"Apparently Cam knows him from way back. I'm excited, because from what she has told me, he's pretty open-minded. It sounds like we'll be able to work like we're used to with him around."

Bones didn't reply, and shuffled through the files on her desk.

"Anyway, Sweetie," Angela continued after a beat, "I'm going to go finish up some things before this guy gets here. Cam wants us to meet with him in the lounge at ten."

"Okay, Ange. Sorry. I'm just a little tired. I'll see you up there at ten."

Brennan spent the next hour catching up on Clark's notes regarding the case, and, when it was a few minutes before ten, she headed upstairs.

Cam was already up there with the new agent, and when Brennan entered, they stopped their chit chat. Cam smiled broadly and said, "Oh, good, Dr. Brennan! I want you to meet our new liaison. This is John Doggett. John, this is Dr. Temperance Brennan, our very own, world-renowned forensic anthropologist. I think you two will enjoy working together."

He shook Brennan's hand, and she immediately noticed his piercing blue eyes and his easy smile. "Nice to meet you, Dr. Brennan. I'm looking forward to working with you."

Cam said, "I've known John for years – he was a cop in New York and we were on the force together years ago. He's been with the FBI for a long time now, and he is used to working on rather… unorthodox cases. I think you'll find his openness to science very refreshing, Dr. Brennan."

Doggett chuckled. "I'm used to working closely with 'sciency doctor-types,' so I will trust your professional assessment on the case and take seriously your recommendations and your science, Dr. Brennan. I understand that you're used to being out in the field, and I have asked Hacker to reinstate you so that you can come with me this afternoon. I have an appointment to meet with Stacy White's roommate at one o'clock. She called me - sounded terrified - and says she has some information for us. I could use your anthropological insight on this religious group they're involved with. It sounds more like a tribe than a cult."

Brennan's interest was piqued, and she could tell that she was going to enjoy her time with Doggett. It was still early, but she was definitely feeling more optimistic about the day - and about her new partner. She smiled at him and sat, ready for the briefing to begin.

_Okay, people! A little nod there for you guys… I promise I'm not writing a crossover. Just thought it would be fun to include Doggett as a little surprise for some of my like-minded readers. _

_And things are about to get very interesting for Brennan. Stay tuned. _

_Oh, and seriously. Go listen to that song. You're welcome._


	8. Chapter 8

_I am absolutely loving everyone's amazing reviews! It is SO rewarding to be writing my first story and to be getting this incredible feedback… and it is so helpful! Thank you! You guys are the best._

**Chapter 8**

The briefing with Agent Doggett was a shot in the arm for the Jeffersonian team, and each member returned to his or her respective station afterward with a newfound lightness. The sudden morale boost made Brennan realize that she had been unaware until now of the heaviness that had hung over everyone. _The center didn't hold this time_, she mused, _and it has affected everyone we're associated with._

She returned to her office to check her email and to put together a plan of action for the day, when Doggett appeared in her doorway.

"Dr. Brennan, it's noon. Want to go grab a bite before we head over to the Hoover?"

Brennan accepted immediately, surprising herself with her sudden readiness to jump into this partnership. There was something about this new agent that assured her that he could be trusted. He felt "safe" to her: he was at least ten years her senior, treated her with warmth and respect, and had approached her coworkers with a quiet willingness to listen and learn without the ego and cockiness she had grown used to.

"Great," Doggett said. "I thought we could use the time to figure out a course of action here. I'm interested to hear your take on this case. You like pizza? There's a great place that just opened up near the Old Post Office. Best New York-style pizza around."

"Sounds good." Brennan suddenly realized that she was hungry. She grabbed her purse and followed him out.

##############################

Booth had just closed his suitcase when he heard the knock at his door. He froze. If Bones were here to pester him again, he knew he would come unglued. His blood pressure rose at the thought, and he jerked open the door, ready to launch into a profanity-laced diatribe.

His face must have revealed his fury, because Cam stood there in the hallway like a deer in headlights, rendered speechless by his sudden, forceful appearance.

Booth deflated immediately and rolled his eyes. "Cam. I'm really busy here. I was actually about to leave…"

Cam regained her wits and stepped past him into his entryway. "Seeley, what the hell is up with you? No – don't dismiss me. Do you have any idea the carnage you've left behind here? Our team is a mess, the FBI paired us with a complete ass of an agent, and Brennan is – well, she's keeping a good front, Seeley, but she's devastated. What did you do to her? The bigger question is, what has happened to you?"

"Camille, I swear, I do not want to get into this right now. I just want to grab my suitcase, get out of this damn apartment, and go train with the CIA."

"That's exactly what I'm talking about, Seeley. You are avoiding all responsibility here, and you are turning into someone you are not. And the CIA? Really? You're not a spook, Seeley. You're a soldier and a very good cop."

"I'm not going to be spying, Camille. I just… I just can't take any more murder, any more bodies, any more bones. I need to save lives, and I need a change. I've done lots of soul searching, and I've come to the conclusion that all this…" he gestured at his surroundings, "is obviously not working for me. I've tried to be the good guy, the honorable guy, the hero, the guy who does right by the women he loves. What has it gotten me? A whole lot of trying to convince people that I'm worth sticking around for, only for them to bolt on me. I'm done with that."

Cam crossed her arms. "I don't buy it, Seeley. What I see is a broken man who's cutting and running because he can't conform the woman he loves into his own image. You wanted Hannah on _your_ terms, not hers…"

"This isn't about Hannah," he mumbled, turning away and heading for his suitcase.

Cam followed him. "Oh, I see. So this is about Brennan. Same principle applies here, Seeley. Even more so with her. I warned you what would happen if you told her how you felt and then took it back…"

"She rejected ME – twice!" he spat.

"Seeley, maybe she just wasn't prepared for what you had to say. You couldn't have thought that she'd immediately drop everything, hang-ups and all, and jump headfirst into a relationship with you."

"Actually, I did," he countered sarcastically. "We were close. We shared things with each other that we shared with no one else. I thought that if she really loved me, which I believed she did, she'd feel safe enough to go for it. Apparently that wasn't the case…"

"So you did exactly what I told you not to do… you changed your mind? You didn't even bother to fight for her?"

"Camille, I'm done with this conversation. I have a three hour drive ahead of me and I'm already running late."

"Seeley, just think about your actions. Consider that there may be an angle here that you're not seeing…."

"Yeah, okay, Cam. Look, I gotta go. Thanks for stopping by." He picked up his suitcase and laptop bag and strode to his front door, opening it and gesturing her out. The sooner he got out of D.C. and away from Bones and her meddling squints, the happier he'd be.

############################################

"So, Dr. Brennan, what do you think? Best veggie pizza you've ever had?" Doggett sat down next to her on the steps of the Old Post Office as she bit into an extraordinarily large slice.

"I would say, Agent Doggett, that it is most definitely in the top five. Of course, I can only speak from my limited experience. It would be unscientific to make such a claim without having tried every pizza establishment in the country."

Doggett chuckled, handing her her drink. "You remind me of my former partner. She was a medical examiner…same scientific mind as you. I learned a lot from her."

Brennan smiled. "Dr. Saroyan said that you were used to working unusual cases. What does that mean?"

"I was assigned to a division that no one else wanted. Cases that were labeled with an "X," which meant that they had unexplained components to them that no one wanted to touch. They shut it down years ago; I've been working 'normal' cases since then, mainly missing persons and kidnappings. There's similar division today that investigates cases involving fringe science. It's obviously someone's pet. Much better funding than we had."

"There's no such thing as 'fringe science,'" Brennan scoffed. "Either it's science, or it's fantasy, conjecture. I can't believe that American tax dollars pay for such a wasted use of government resources."

"Don't be so dismissive, Dr. Brennan. I've seen some things in my time that I can't explain, and I'm not sure science would explain them, either. But sure as the grass is green and the sky is blue, they happened. We blew the doors off of a large government cover-up of some of these cases. That's when they shut us down. I'll have to tell you the whole story sometime."

Brennan smirked, unsure of whether or not he was toying with her. "Well, whatever you do, do _not_ share any of this with Dr. Hodgins. Please."

Doggett laughed. "The bug guy? Is he a black helicopter guy? Never would have thought that about him."

Brennan nodded and laughed. "He's a very bright scientist, but he does have a penchant for conspiracies. Don't encourage him!"

Just then, Brennan heard her name being called, and looked across the street to see Parker and Rebecca heading towards them.

"Bones!" shouted Parker happily, and broke into a run once they reached the sidewalk on Brennan's side of the street. He ran straight into her arms, hugged her tightly, and kissed her on the cheek.

"Parker! What are you doing out of school today?" Brennan asked, laughing at his exuberance at seeing her.

"Mom had to take me to the dentist. No cavities!" He smiled broadly, showing Brennan his clean teeth.

"Yes, but we're going to need braces in a few years," Rebecca said, finally catching up to him. "Thank God for child support!" She winked at Brennan, hoping to bring her in on the playful ribbing of Booth. Brennan smiled weakly.

"So, Bones, Dad is gonna be a spy! Are you gonna do that, too? Do you have to go away to training, too?" Parker was flushed with excitement, obviously proud of his dad.

Brennan looked at Rebecca, whose face immediately registered understanding. Brennan patted Parker's arm and said, "No, Parker, I'm staying here. So if you want to hang out with me sometime, you can call me, okay? I'd love to go see a movie sometime or something."

"That would be awesome! Thanks, Bones! Mom, can we get ice cream, now? Ben and Jerry's is right here!" He pointed and pulled on Rebecca, urging her towards the ice cream store.

"Sure, Parker. Why don't you go inside and pick out your flavor. I'll be there in a minute."

"Okay! Bye, Bones!"

Brennan hugged him, and he skipped away through the doors, eager to spoil his just-cleaned teeth.

Rebecca watched him go, then looked at Brennan. "Umm, it was really good to see you, Dr. Brennan. If you… need anything, you can call me anytime. And for the record, I know Seeley: he won't be gone long. Not if you're here."

Brennan didn't know what to say, so she mumbled a weak, "thank you," and watched as Rebecca left to find Parker.

She was shaken, having been taken off guard by seeing them and by the mention of Booth, and she gazed into the street, lost in thought.

"Hey. You okay, Dr. Brennan?" Doggett touched her shoulder, his voice gentle.

Brennan snapped back to reality. "I'm fine. I'm just…"

"Getting over losing your partner. I understand. I seem to get assigned the role of the 'rebound partner' quite often," he said, smiling a little. "The doctor I told you about – my last partner - lost her partner, and I replaced him. They had the same connection that I've heard you and Agent Booth had. A bond like that isn't something you get over easily. For what it's worth, I'm not trying to replace Agent Booth. I'll do everything I can to make the transition smooth and let you work the way you're used to working. Is that good with you?"

Brennan nodded, incredibly grateful for Agent Doggett's sensitivity and understanding.

"Great. Well, it's getting close to our appointment time," he said, standing. He held out his hand to help her up, which she accepted. "Ready?"

She shouldered her bag and stood. "Definitely."

##############################

Katie Lopez twisted her necklace nervously as she stared at the table before her. The FBI conference room was quiet, and Brennan reached across the table and gently took the photos of Stacy White that Katie had brought. On the surface, she looked like a normal young professional: well-dressed, attractive, fun-loving.

"Ms. Lopez, what do you know about Stacy's church?" Doggett was standing at the counter on the side of the room. "You said on the phone that they had some rather strange practices." He walked over to where they were seated and set a glass of water in front of her.

"Um, well, it wasn't her church that was weird. She started going to this Bible study, and at first it was cool, she seemed like she was enjoying it and meeting new people. But then she started getting all secretive about it, and I knew that they were meeting a lot more than once a week. They even named themselves this weird name: the Handmaidens of Mercy. I saw a picture of the leader on Facebook… total David Koresh vibe. She decided to go on a retreat with them, and she just never came back."

"When was the retreat?" Brennan asked.

"It was like…. Wow, like over a month ago. It was supposed to be just for a weekend."

"Do you know where they were going?" Doggett asked.

"Somewhere in West Virginia. It seemed kind of far for a weekend retreat, but whatever. She got all defensive when I asked her about it."

Doggett nodded. "Did she have any pet causes, or was she politically active at all?"

"Well, like, she was way into pro-life stuff. She had literature all over her room, and she told me that when she was in college, she and her church friends would do stuff like protest at abortion clinics and get arrested and stuff. She wasn't all 'in-your-face' about it, at least not to me. But, then again, I'm on the same side as she is. I just don't believe in cramming my beliefs down people's throats."

Brennan looked at Doggett, who asked, "Ms. Lopez, did you know Samantha Metzger or Carrie Reininger?"

"No, but like I said, she got all secretive about her Bible study people, so I never met any of them. I just knew their names because she talked about them."

"Why did you say that you were afraid when you called me?"

"Because I got a card from the leader inviting me to their next retreat. It was handwritten, and he said that he had heard about my pro-life feelings and my devotion to 'the Kingdom,' and that I had been chosen to join them. It just didn't feel right to me."

"Katy," Brennan interjected, "Do you have the card he sent you?"

"Yeah, here..." she dug around in her purse on the floor and retrieved the card and a homemade-looking brochure. "Here's a flyer with more information."

"Thank you, Katy. You've been a big help." Doggett stood and showed her out, telling her to call him if she heard anything else from the group.

He came back into the room and looked at Brennan. "So, what do you think? Is this a Waco-type group?"

"I don't know, Agent Doggett. It sounds like it, but I'd have to see firsthand. If it is, it seems strange that he would place their bodies in their parents' garages after executing them. It doesn't make sense. I wish we could track down this leader of theirs… 'Jacob,' as he's referred to here in this brochure."

"Katie said that the retreat was being held in West Virginia. That exoskeleton your bug guy found is from a stinkbug that's a known pest in that specific area, right? Things are coming together slowly, but we just don't have enough to go on yet."

Brennan thought for a minute, looking over the brochure one more time.

"Agent Doggett. I might be able to get us into the group. Angela said that they have a Facebook group page. I could have her set me up a fake profile and join their group. I'm very good undercover."

"I'm sure you are, Dr. Brennan, but you're not officially reinstated yet. If you do this, it has to be off the radar until we get Hacker's approval."

"That's fine. I just think that the sooner we get involved with them on Facebook, the sooner we can infiltrate the actual group. The next retreat is at the end of this month. That doesn't give us much time."

"Alright. But don't do anything without my knowledge, okay? I've heard about your daredevil tendencies, Doctor. I don't need you doing anything dumb. From what I've observed about your team, there would be a long line of people waiting to have their way with me if I let anything happen to you." Doggett looked at her, eyes twinkling.

"I promise. I'll get Angela on it as soon as we get back to the lab."

It was good to be back - good to be working in the field again, paired up with an agent who gave her room to be herself. They departed, and Brennan felt more hope than she had in weeks. She was definitely looking forward to working with John Doggett, who offered her a clean slate – no drama, no history, no expectations. It was exactly who she needed, and she was going to make sure she thanked Cam when she arrived back at the lab.


	9. Chapter 9

_Sorry for the delay in updating… I had a busy day yesterday, and every time I sat down to write, I was interrupted by some crisis on the home front! I've made up for it with a nice long one for you._

_So what about that promo for next week's elevator episode? Holy crap. I'm really trying not to get my hopes up, but wow._

_I have to say, that in the midst of writing all this angst, it was really, really good to see B&B interacting like old times. Loved it when he caught up to her and surprised her when she was jogging. Happy to see them flirting a bit with each other. Hated when he told Sweets "it's over." Ugh._

_Okay, that is all. Now back to our story._

**Chapter 9**

The next two weeks were uneventful. Angela set up a fake Facebook profile for Brennan, and Brennan spent time adding friends, causes, and pages that supported the undercover persona she was carefully crafting. The Handmaidens of Mercy was a closed group, but Angela found several of its members through the profiles of the three victims, and Brennan added them and posed as a mutual friend who had a shared interest in right-wing causes. The groundwork they were laying was painstaking, and Brennan was becoming impatient knowing that lives were at stake.

Doggett and Brennan fell into a comfortable rhythm as partners: he would call her every morning to check in and share any new information or insights he had on the case. Around noon each day, he'd pick her up and they'd eat lunch on the go, then spend the afternoons visiting the families, coworkers, and friends of the victims. Brennan found him enjoyable to work with, and his stories he shared of past cases – which sounded like tall tales to her – provided a welcome diversion from the heaviness that plagued her when she went home at night. She discovered that, prior to coming to work for the FBI, his six-year-old son had been kidnapped and murdered. She admired his sensitivity and understanding as he dealt with the victims' families, and noticed how he was able to gently draw out vast amounts of information during their interviews with the families because of his empathy and care.

On Friday afternoon, they were leaving Samantha Metzger's apartment after unsuccessfully trying to track down her roommate, when her parents called. Doggett spoke with them briefly, then ended the call and turned the car towards Alexandria.

"That was Samantha's mother," he told Brennan. "They were going through her old mail and found some correspondence that they think may be of interest to us. She said that it's a few months old, but she thinks that it might help us find the location of the retreat center."

Shannon Metzger met them at the door when they arrived, postcard in hand.

"I just found this in a stack of her old mail. She must have left it here by accident when she came to visit us last – that was over a month ago, and the postmark on this card is from a late January. I don't know if it'll help…"

Doggett took the postcard from her and turned it over. It was a picture postcard, the Washington Monument shown on the front. The back simply contained an address located in Richwood, WV.

"West Virginia again," Doggett mused to Brennan. "Thank you, Mrs. Metzger. We'll check it out and I'll let you know what we come up with."

Brennan and Doggett climbed back into his vehicle and he scribbled down the address on his notepad. "I need to drop this by the Hoover and have my handwriting guy take a look at this. After that, you feel like taking a little weekend trip to West Virginia? I hear it's lovely this time of year," he said, winking at her.

Brennan laughed out loud; that deep, unabashed laughter that often escaped before she realized it was coming. She was thrilled that Doggett was involving her in so much of the case, and nearly giddy that they had an out-of-town lead. The change in scenery was long overdue.

#####################

Doggett dropped Brennan off at the Medico-Legal Lab so that she could retrieve her car and go home to pack. He told her he'd pick her up at seven, so she had some time to kill and decided to check in with Angela.

"Hey, you!" Angela greeted from behind her Mac. "So, guess what? Looks like you've been invited to join the Handmaidens Facebook page. I accepted for you. Looking around, there isn't much in the way of leads, but they've probably deleted anything incriminating and do most of their correspondence via private messages. Anyway, it's a start. At least we have names of some of the girls who are involved. There are about forty members. I'm going to post on the wall for you, introducing yourself to the group."

"Good work, Ange. I hope they will bring me into their confidence."

"That's the plan. What's up with you? How's it going with Agent Blue Eyes?" Angela winked at Brennan.

"Actually, we have found an address in West Virginia that looks promising. We are headed out to take a look in a couple of hours."

Angela's eyebrows arched high in mock surprise. "Really? A weekend getaway in the mountains? So soon?"

"Angela, Agent Doggett merely wants me there for my anthropological insights into the possible crime scene."

"I know, Sweetie. I was just kidding."

Brennan laughed a little too loudly. "Oh, right, because you know that I am actually still in love with Booth, and so you were making a joke about Doggett because it is so unbelievable that we would go out of town for a romantic weekend!"

Angela rolled her eyes. "Once again, you killed it, sweetie. Never mind. _Anyway…._wait. Did you just use the 'L' word?"

Brennan realized her slip and flushed. "I don't know what that means."

"You did. You totally just said 'love,' Bren. Okay, seriously, I have never seen you like this. Does Booth know this? Because if he does, I swear I am going to murder him. What a prick!"

"I… I haven't exactly told him that part, Ange," Brennan said, her voice thin. There was an awkward pause, and she seemed lost in her thoughts for a moment. Then she shook her head and looked at Angela, eyes steely. "Anyway, it doesn't matter now. I have plenty of work to keep myself busy, and you told me not to dwell on it, so I am not. At this point, the chances of things working out the way I want them to are statistically slim."

"Well, I still think he's just running from what he knows is inevitable, sweetie. He'll come around. In the meantime, you're right: you focus on catching this religious asshole – or whatever he is – and save these girls I'm looking at here on this Facebook page."

"That's exactly what I plan to do, Ange."

Brennan hugged her friend, and they promised to stay in touch over the weekend to track any developments in the case.

###########################

Doggett picked Brennan up at exactly seven o'clock, and they grabbed a bite to eat before embarking on the five-hour journey. They chatted easily for the first half of the trip, and then fell into a companionable silence as the evening wore on. Most of the roads were rural, with the last leg taking them through the Monogahela National Forest. It was slow going on some parts of the road where tax dollars were obviously scarce and upkeep of the highway was not a priority.

They arrived in Richwood after midnight, and Doggett found them rooms at the only motel in town, a family-owned motor lodge that was a throwback to the 1960's. They checked into their respective rooms, and Brennan immediately collapsed into bed, where she slept more soundly than she had in weeks.

Doggett knocked on her door at seven the next morning, coffee in hand.

"I hope you like crappy coffee, Dr. Brennan. I went out of my way to find it for you."

Brennan smiled and opened the door wider to let him in. They were both dressed casually, and seeing him in jeans and a t-shirt set her at ease. She sighed unconsciously, turned to the mirror, and pulled her just-dried hair into a high ponytail.

"Everything ok, Dr. Brennan?" Doggett asked.

She turned back to find him sitting on the edge of the bed, watching her. "Oh, yes, sorry. I find you very easy to work with. I feel as if I've known you for a long time. I'm just grateful that you've let me come with you. I… I needed this."

"You're welcome, Dr. Brennan. And, for the record, I'm enjoying partnering up with you, too."

They looked at each other and smiled, sharing a moment of silent but comfortable understanding, then Doggett stood.

"Well, what say we go find some breakfast? I'm sure there's a greasy spoon somewhere in town, and, while I'm not sure they'll have the largest vegetarian menu for you to choose from, it may be a good place to start asking the locals about the Handmaidens group."

She nodded and followed him out. As she closed the motel room door behind her, her phone chirped within her purse. Climbing into the passenger seat of the SUV, she dug her phone out and checked her text messages.

"News from home?" Doggett asked as he pulled the car onto the county road that led into town.

"Yes. Angela says to check my Facebook. Apparently I have a private message from someone in the Handmaidens group."

She used her phone to log onto her fake profile, and there was indeed a message in her inbox from a woman named Serena. The message was titled "Welcome." Brennan read it aloud:

"Hey there, welcome to our group. It looks like you're a like-minded person, and we would like to talk with you about some of our upcoming protests and see if you're interested in getting involved with some of the events we have planned. A couple of us are meeting up for coffee on Sunday night at the Capitol Grounds Coffeehouse. Interested?"

Doggett glanced at Brennan. "Hell yeah, you're interested! We'll be back by then."

Brennan fired off a reply accepting the appointment, then sent a text to Angela to inform her of their plans for the day. Angela texted back:

"_Great. I'll keep Cam in the loop. Be careful, Bren!"_

When they arrived in town, Doggett steered the car down Main Street in search of a suitable breakfast spot. The town was small, a typical Appalachian hamlet with a population of just over 2,000, according to the welcome sign. Many of the shops along the main drag sat empty, a testament to the depressed economy of the town due to the closing of its coal mines two decades prior. Most local mom-and-pop retail stores had fallen victim to the rise in neighboring towns of the large box store chains, and the run-down residences reflected the near-poverty income level of its inhabitants.

The reached the end of Main Street and spotted a quaint-looking restaurant with cedar siding and a large deck on the back, whose retro sign over the door boasted hot breakfast and icebox pies. Doggett pulled into the small parking lot and grinned.

"Looks like the place! Hungry?"

"Starved. Metaphorically speaking, of course," Brennan answered, opening her door.

"Of course," he laughed.

The diner looked like a smaller, more authentic Cracker Barrel, with plank floors, plain tables neatly flanked by standard, red-cushioned metal chairs, and country-style knickknacks lining the walls. The Saturday breakfast crowd was noisy, consisting of families with multiple children, construction workers, and a few hikers. Brennan and Doggett waited in line at the register to place their order, and Brennan was scanning the menu when Doggett lightly touched her elbow.

"Listen," he said, his voice low. "Let's not show our 'federal agent' cards right away. These little towns tend to be gossip mills, and I'd like to stay inconspicuous for a bit until we figure out who we're dealing with and how involved they are in daily life around here. We're just a couple on vacation this morning, okay?"

Brennan nodded, and they stepped up to place their order.

The woman behind the register was attractive, in her mid-fifties, and greeted them warmly. "Hey there, you two. What'll it be today?"

They gave her their order, paid, and she handed back their change. "So, you guys in town just for the weekend?"

"Yeah, thought we'd check out the hiking scene," Doggett answered, placing his hand on Brennan's back. "We heard the trails are beautiful here."

"Yep. Best trails in the region. You guys camping, too?"

"No, we just thought we'd hike a little, maybe find a place to go horseback riding, go to church on Sunday somewhere. Actually, a friend of ours told us about a retreat center that may have a Bible study or something on Sunday. Do you know where it is?" He pulled the address that Samantha Metzger's mother had given from the postcard and handed it to her. She studied it for a second, then frowned.

"I believe that's Max Davies' place. It's just a farm, though. We don't have any formal retreat centers around here. I think there was a kook group up there a while back holding some sort of religious ritual b.s., but no one here knows anything about them. Anyway, I go to the First Baptist Church here, if you're interested in services Sunday."

"Thanks, ma'am," Doggett said, turning and guiding Brennan towards a table. The man behind them in line nodded as they passed.

After they were seated with their food, the man approached their table. "I heard you askin' Denise about the group that meets at the Davies place," he said, leaning down and placing his hands on the tabletop. His weathered face was cloaked with concern. "You don't want none of them. Bunch of freaks that camp out in the woods like some kind of damn militia." He sipped his coffee thoughtfully, then added, "Last time they were here, they had a hell of a bonfire - Davies said it sounded like they had some wacko ritual ceremony going on. David Heller, guy that owns the hardware store down the way, said they came in looking to buy ammo and other stuff, too. Kinda freaked him out."

Brennan took a bite of oatmeal, and said, "Wow, I don't think that's the sort of thing we were looking for. They sound like a weird bunch. We're definitely not into the whole 'Bible-and-guns' thing, are we, honey?" She beamed at Doggett, proud of her use of colloquial speech.

The man straightened and rocked on his heels. "We ain't like that around here, either. They're from out of town somewhere. Everyone around here is pretty much your average, church-going, flag-waving citizen, and we don't take kindly to rumors of interlopers with crazy-ass beliefs. We thought about calling the cops, but they were gone by the end of the weekend and – weirdest thing – Davies said that he couldn't find any sign that they'd ever been out there after they left. Almost like aliens had taken them." He grinned and offered his hand for Doggett to shake. "Well, I'll let you folks get back to your breakfast. I just didn't want y'all to think we was some sort of kook town. Enjoy your stay."

"We will," Doggett said, throwing his arm around Brennan. "We're looking forward to doing some exploring. Seems like a nice town."

"Well, let me know if you need anything while you're here. I'm Dale, and I'm pretty much a fixture here. Got laid off, so I hang out here most days and keep Denise company. You come find me if you want me to show you around."

They thanked Dale, finished their food, and stood to leave. Denise called after them, "Thanks, folks! Come back and see us! We've got chicken-fried steak on special tonight, and the best damn blueberry pie you've ever tasted!"

Doggett waved in reply as he held the door for Brennan, then followed her out.

"Whatcha say, Dr. Brennan: go visit Davies, and then come back for a big, fat plate of chicken fried steak later?"

She wrinkled her nose. "No, but if you want that pie, I will be happy to come back with you and have a salad."

It was Doggett's turn to show his disgust. "Nah. Not my thing. I don't like my fruit cooked."

#################################

They pulled into the long drive leading to Max Davies' farm. Two nondescript mutts ran alongside the SUV and registered their annoyance at the vehicle's intrusion. When they reached the farmhouse, an elderly woman emerged and waved to them from the front porch, an ill-fitting housedress hanging on her slight frame.

Doggett turned off the engine and watched as he stepped out of the car and walked up the front steps to speak with the woman, whom Brennan assumed to be Max Davies' wife. They conversed briefly, and Brennan could tell by the woman's easy smile that Doggett had won her over. Soon, Doggett clasped the woman's hand gingerly, and she smiled, patted him on the arm, and reentered the house.

Doggett returned to the car and slid behind the wheel. "That's Mrs. Davies," he said, nodding toward the house. "She says that her husband, Max, is in the barn, and that she would call ahead and let him know we're coming down to see him."

"So, are we still undercover, Agent Doggett?" Brennan queried.

"No. From what Mrs. Davies said, it sounds like the Handmaidens group just showed up on the back of their property, and since it borders the national forest, Davies let them use his land, not knowing what they were up to. If this group is from somewhere else, which it sounds like they are, I'm not worried about keeping a cover anymore."

They drove for about two minutes down the gravel drive, then, per Mrs. Davies directions, turned off onto a tractor path that led to the barn. The building loomed ominously ahead, its dilapidated roof and peeling paint betraying the farm's age despite the modern vehicles and implements scattered out front. Doggett parked the SUV next to a large, dual-axle pickup truck, and he and Brennan headed toward the barn.

"Max Davies?" Doggett called as they stepped through the gaping barn door.

"Back here!" came a distant but surprisingly young-sounding voice from the back of the barn. Doggett and Brennan made their way past machinery in various stages of decay, and found Max Davies hunched over a chainsaw, tinkering with its motor. He straightened when he saw them, wiped grease from his hands onto a nearby rag, and held out his hand.

"I'm Max. My wife said you are with the FBI?"

Brennan was surprised. Judging by his wife's appearance, the couple had to be in their seventies, yet Max stood straight and carried himself like a man half his age. His body showed none of the typical markers of a lifetime of farm work.

Doggett shook his hand and responded, "Yes, sir. Special Agent John Doggett. We're here from Washington investigating a group who may have used your property recently."

Max took off his baseball cap and wiped his brow. "Oh lands. I knew they were trouble. At first I thought they were just a bunch of college women looking for a place to camp, so I let them use the back pasture. It wasn't until later that I found out that they were some wing-nut group."

"When were they here?" Doggett inquired.

"Oh, let's see… a month ago or so. I went out to water the cows in that back pasture and saw them setting up camp, right on the treeline. The national forest backs up to our land, so I just figured that they had wandered onto my property accidentally, and I decided to let them stay."

"Did you speak with any of them?"

"Yes, I drove the pickup out to where they were setting up, and two young ladies met me and asked if they were okay to use that spot. They seemed nice enough. There were about thirty of them – all women – and one man. I thought that was odd, but I dismissed it, figuring that they were some sort of college group on a field trip with their professor or something. Anyway, we spoke for a few minutes, and they went back to their group. Next day, when I came back to check on them, it looked like they had set up some sort of religious altar had been set up."

"When you spoke with them, did they say who they were?" Brennan asked.

"No ma'am. They were vague. Just said that they were camping together for the weekend."

Doggett looked puzzled. "Did you see any guns or any other type of weapons? We were told that they might have been inquiring about ammunition in town."

"That's what I heard from Heller at the hardware store," Davies responded, "but I never saw anything like that. But they did have a target range set up in the woods there."

"Someone in town described a bonfire. Did you see that?" Brennan asked.

"Oh, yes, ma'am. That was the most bizarre thing they did. Our bedroom is on the second floor of the house, and we can see the pasture from our window. I woke up in the middle of the night because of the glow of their fire. It was massive. I jumped onto my Gator and went as far as the front fence to check it out. I couldn't believe the noise. They were chanting and singing, and from what little I could hear of the man's voice, I think they were having some sort of sacrifice on that altar of theirs. I never found any animal carcasses, but it sure reeked of burning flesh."

Doggett and Brennan exchanged a look. Doggett said, "Mr. Davies, would you mind taking us to the site of that bonfire?"

"Of course. Let me get my keys. We'll take the pickup."

He led them back outside and went to his ATV to retrieve the keys to the truck.

Brennan walked next to Doggett toward their SUV, her expression serious. "I think we might need to take my evidence kit. If this is where the murders took place, I should be able to find traces of human remains out there."

Doggett nodded and opened the back hatch of the truck, pulling out her bag, a shovel, and a camera.

"Alright, you two ready?" Davies unlocked the truck and opened the door for Brennan, helping her as she stepped up into the cab.

Doggett climbed in beside her. "Mr. Davies, did you find anything in the pasture after they left?"

Davies started the engine and reversed into an opening, then steered the truck down the tractor path. "No. You'll see when we get out there, but I could barely tell there'd been a fire the next morning. I went out there around seven that morning, and they were all gone. There wasn't as much as a pile of ash left. Not sure how they managed that."

When they reached the pasture, Davies showed them the campsite area, and then excused himself, saying that he'd be back in an hour to get them. Doggett set to work taking pictures of the area where Davies had said the campsite was located, and Brennan began to examine the dirt, squatting down intermittently to analyze changes in soil color and taking samples as she worked. She used a small garden claw from her bag to upturn the dirt, carefully searching just below the surface for fragments that might give them insight into the group and their activities.

Doggett was almost to the treeline when he heard Brennan call to him.

"Did you find something?" he asked, jogging towards her. She was holding something up between her gloved thumb and forefinger, her face grim. As he got closer, she palmed the object, stood, and then opened her hand to show him.

"It's a skull fragment," she informed him, brushing a stray strand of hair out of her eyes with the back of her hand.

"Human or animal?"

"Human."

"You can tell that without DNA or a microscope or anything?" Doggett was amazed. They walked towards the fence at the edge of the pasture and sat down on the edge of a cement water trough.

"Yes. See how the interior is smooth? The interior of an animal skull is rougher and more complex. Also, the curvature of the bone indicates a human skull. We need to get a team out here as soon as possible. This looks like our crime scene."

Doggett nodded, pulling out his phone. "Do you think that this fragment is from one of our three victims?"

"No, all of their skulls were intact. However, we have particulates from two other victims whose remains have not been recovered yet. It's highly likely that we'll be able to match the DNA to one of them."

Doggett's face was grave. "I hope that's the case, and that there aren't more victims out there that we don't know about."

He called in their location, and Brennan called Cam to fill her in. After they ended their calls, Doggett said, "I guess we'll mark it off and wait for the team to arrive. Hacker is sending them in via chopper to expedite things here. Dr. Hodgins and one of your interns are coming as well. As soon as we hand the scene off to them, we can head back home. I know you want to oversee the excavation, but if we're going to hook up with these kooks on Sunday, we'll need to get you back in time to get you ready."

Brennan nodded and they stood and returned to the dirt, eager to uncover what they could while they waited for the field team to arrive.

_Okay! There you are! Booth may or may not reappear in the next chapter. He was getting on my nerves, so I had to put him in "time out."_

_More tomorrow!_


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10

Brennan closed her front door behind her and dropped her bag on the floor. She was exhausted. The emotional strain of their discovery out in the field, the painstaking collection of evidence, and the five-hour drive back from Richwood had made for a very long day. She was relieved when Hodgins and Clark had shown up with the FBI Forensics Unit, knowing that any evidence uncovered would be handled properly by her squints.

_Squints._ Her breath caught as she realized that she had attached Booth's nickname to her own team. His face flashed through her mind like a lightning bolt, vivid and then instantly gone, leaving her weak as her loneliness for him washed over her. She was so appreciative of Doggett and the friendship and understanding that had bloomed between them, but it did not assuage the overwhelming…heartache, for lack of a better way to describe it, that she could not escape when she was home.

She poured herself a glass of wine and flopped onto the couch. She laid her head on the back pillows and closed her eyes. She was tired of running from the intense emotions of fear and hurt that chased her through her days and nights lately. Booth had pushed her for six years into becoming more open. It had been gradual, and his easy vulnerability with her, coupled with her trust of him as her best friend, had produced a change in her. Yet she had continued to cling to the protective habit of keeping people – and him, in particular – at arm's length. It wasn't until the Eames case that she had been ravaged by the startling realization that she very well could end up like Lauren Eames, and the idea shook her to the very core. She took a massive leap of faith and poured out her heart to Booth about what she'd learned. By that time, he was completely unavailable to her, having shut her out of his personal life since he came back from Afghanistan. She hadn't expected him to jump into her arms, necessarily; she knew that he was trying to make things work with Hannah. More than anything, she had needed his understanding and his reassurance. She had needed him to comfort her on a level that only Booth could. While she was telling him that she wanted to let him love her, she had needed him to respond to her in the "old Boothy way." She had needed her best friend back.

And, despite her best efforts to protect her heart from the pain of abandonment, he had abandoned her anyway. Anger at him welled up within her as she suddenly understood that, even though he had pushed and pushed her to open up to him, he himself had been running – it had begun under the guise of "moving on," had taken on the form of a certain blonde reporter, and was now fully manifested in this incredibly dark place he was now in. His hypocrisy was infuriating to her.

It was time to talk to him, whether he wanted to listen or not. She was done playing this game. If he wouldn't accept her phone calls or talk in person, she'd still demand to be heard. Fueled by her anger, she whipped out a sheet of stationery from her desk, sat down, and began to write.

Two hours later, having exhausted her mental and emotional reserves, she folded the paper and tucked it inside an envelope. She would have to figure out how to get it to him; she was unsure of whether or not he'd receive mail at The Farm, and she didn't want to involve Parker, though she knew that Booth would at least be staying in touch with him if no one else.

She yawned and stood, arching her aching back into a deep stretch, and padded to her bedroom. Writing, as always, had been cathartic, and by the time her head hit the pillow, she was peaceful for the first time in months.

**##############**

She met Doggett at noon, and over lunch, they discussed her meeting with the Handmaidens group that evening. It was decided that she would need to dress and act a bit younger than her age, since all three of the victims had been in their early- to mid-twenties, and it was apparent from the Facebook group that most of the other women were around that same age as well. She sent a quick text to Angela asking her to go on an impromptu shopping trip later that afternoon.

"You sure you're comfortable with this, Dr. Brennan?" Doggett asked her one more time. "It's not standard operating procedure to send a consultant into an undercover situation."

"I will be fine," Brennan assured him. "I plan to do more listening than talking, and I've done undercover work before with Booth. I enjoy it very much."

"Okay. Well, I'm going to wire you up so that we can pull you out if you get in the weeds, and I'll be right outside, posing as your boyfriend. Remember that this is largely a fact-finding mission, and if you can infiltrate, great. If not, at least we've gained more info on them than we had before."

Brennan was silent, her eyes distant. Doggett reached across the table and touched her arm.

"You okay?"

"I went undercover with Booth in Las Vegas a few years ago…" her voice trailed off sadly.

"You miss him, don't you? Dr. Brennan, I don't mean to pry, and if you don't want to talk about it, I get it, but what happened there? You guys were the star partnership of the Bureau for years, and suddenly, you're split up, not talking, and from what I've heard, he's off the deep end."

"It's…a long story. We had a falling out. I… honestly, Agent Doggett, I don't understand what happened myself."

She realized that she was stammering, but couldn't control it. Voicing all the pain to someone she barely knew was not normal to her, but she felt that she could tell Doggett the truth.

"He was my…he was my best friend. Now he won't even look at me, and I can't seem to rationalize my way past this. It…it just…hurts."

He looked at her, eyes soft. "Hey, look. Don't be ashamed of missing him. You're grieving here. They say that we FBI agents are closer with our partners than we are with our spouses because of all the crap we go through together, and because of the level of trust we have to have with each other. So dissolving a partnership is, in a lot of ways, worse than a divorce. That's no small thing to get over."

She nodded. "Thank you for saying that. It makes me feel slightly less neurotic."

He laughed, and she smiled, grateful for the lightening of the mood.

They turned the conversation back to the task at hand, tied up some other loose details, then they parted ways, and Brennan set out to meet Angela for their shopping excursion.

**##############**

Brennan arrived at the coffeehouse right at five and parked around the corner, where Doggett was waiting in his SUV.

"Ready?" he asked.

She nodded, and he handed her the mic and transmitter that she would be wearing under her jacket. Doggett taped the mic's wire to her back, then stepped back and appraised her outfit, nodding his approval. "Your friend did good."

Angela had indeed worked her magic - Brennan looked like a much younger, hipper version of herself. Angela had picked out skinny jeans, a pair of Converse kicks, and a wide-striped long sleeve t-shirt. Her makeup was lighter, and she opted for an Audrey Hepburn-style bun with fringe bangs. She easily looked twenty years old.

"Do you think you can turn off the genius talk for awhile?" he said, winking at her.

"Totally," she said with a lopsided smile. "I will just throw in lots of 'likes' and I should be okay."

"I'll be right here listening. Follow my lead. I'll come in and get you when I feel like we've gotten enough out of them. I may make an appearance earlier if we need to get you out of there for any reason, so don't be caught off guard if that happens."

She nodded, took a deep breath, and headed round the corner to the front door of the coffeehouse.

The place was unusually packed for a Sunday afternoon, and she looked around for women who matched the profile of the Handmaidens.

"Joy?" inquired a voice behind her. She turned to see a woman in a bohemian-style dress smiling at her.

"Oh, hi! I'm Joy!" she said. "Are you with..."

"Yes," the other woman said, cutting her off. "I'm Ashley. We're over in the corner. Come on, I'll introduce you to the others."

Brennan followed her over to the back corner, where five other women were seated, heads huddled together in deep conversation.

Ashley touched Brennan's arm and said, "Everyone, this is Joy. She's the one who just joined us on Facebook."

The women all stood and took turns introducing themselves, each hugging her as they told her their name.

"So, have a seat," said Ashley, directing Brennan to a threadbare winged-back chair in the circle. "We were just talking about ideas for our next protest. Brainstorming, if you want to call it that."

Brennan sat, and said, "So… could you tell me about what kinds of protests you do? Because I have done everything from picketing to Operation Rescue, where I got arrested a few times back in my teens. It was awesome! So good to be able to make a difference, you know?"

Ashley laughed. "Oh, yeah, well, good thing you're used to the jail scene. We do that a lot. Our goal is to outdo Code Pink with the shock and awe factor. We figure if the liberals can be obnoxious about their ridiculous causes, it's high time that we step out and show the world what a double standard the media treats us with. We're demonized, and they're celebrated. We're trying to change that – and save the lives of the unborn. So much more important than stupid global warming or saving the blind spotted newt or whatever!"

"So, what do you have coming up that I can plug into?" Brennan asked. "I am new to this area and really don't have any friends. I mean, I have a boyfriend, but it's not serious. I really want to get involved with some like-minded people. I miss 'girl time,' you know?"

"Totally!" said another girl, who had introduced herself as Hilary. "We've got some protests coming up on the mall. But we have a really big one planned for the first part of April. It's only for a select group of us because it's going to be held on the steps of the Supreme Court when the partial birth bill comes up again, and we want that one to be small but loud. We will definitely be noticed." A brief shadow of something – hatred or anger, Brennan thought – passed across Hilary's face. The girl sitting next to her subtly put her hand on Hilary's arm, and suddenly, Hilary was all smiles again.

"Well," said Brennan, turning back to Ashley, "where do I sign up? Seriously, I'll do anything."

Ashley looked around at her friends. "Well, I think the next step is to come to our Bible study and meet our group leader. He's sort of the one who makes all the decisions about who is and isn't allowed in our group. We have to be really careful, because we've had people try to infiltrate us before who have, we'll just say, less than pure motives. Jacob is really strict about who can get involved. You'll see why when you meet him. But anyway, he's a really amazing man, with so much to teach us. Once you hear him, you'll be a different person."

"Joy, you need to count the cost if you're going to be a Handmaiden," Hilary said, her eyes sober. "Jacob demands full devotion to the Lord and to him. You have to be willing to make some sacrifices if you want to be part of our group. It's hard, but it is so worth it. I'd encourage you to end that relationship with your boyfriend if you truly want to follow Jacob's teachings. He will only drag you down and prevent you from your destiny. It's a higher way of living. All of us here," she gestured around the circle, "have left behind our families and friends because we believe so passionately in Jacob's way. If you're ready to give your life for the cause, then you're fit to be a Handmaiden."

Brennan looked at the women in the circle, their faces earnest in devotion.

"I'm ready," she said.

**#############**

Booth trudged through the door of the Capitol Grounds Coffeehouse and made a beeline for the counter. His head was pounding with the remains of last night's bar hop with his fellow recruits. Then, unexpectedly, he had spent this morning in the hospital with Parker, having received an emergency release to leave base when Rebecca had called to tell him that Parker had broken his arm in that morning's soccer game. Now that the drama of the morning was over and Parker was back home sleeping, he was eager to relax with a cup of coffee, try and stave off his headache, and enjoy a few minutes of solitude before he had to be back at The Farm.

He stood in line and gazed around the room, surprised at how busy it was this late on a Sunday. He noticed a large group of women in the corner who were uncharacteristically quiet, and he gazed at them absentmindedly for a moment, then suddenly realized that the woman whose back was turned to him looked remarkably like Bones. She was not dressed as Bones would, and her hair was different, but as he watched more closely, he realized that her mannerisms were _exactly_ the same.

He quickly turned away, panicking. That couldn't be her. She'd never dress that way, and he knew for a fact that she didn't have that many friends. He snuck another look. She had shifted slightly towards the girl next to her, revealing more of her profile. It sure as hell looked like her. Then she laughed, and he knew it was her.

He whipped his body around so that his back was to her, leaning on the sideways on the counter awkwardly, and quietly ordered his coffee, shoving his money towards the barista. _Damn it!_ Did she have to be everywhere? He had spent the almost-three weeks away from her, purging himself of his anger, and he had finally arrived at the conclusion that they just were not able to be friends. Their moment had passed, and it would be toxic for him to continue in their relationship. He missed her – god, he missed her – but he had decided that he needed to sever those ties permanently.

Seeing her now, though, was a sucker punch to his gut, and he wavered in his resolve. She looked so different, but she looked happy. She was animated in her conversation with the women in the corner, and she seemed uncharacteristically comfortable in their midst. All this time, he had imagined her to be miserable, most likely retreating further into herself as she often did when they had a falling-out, but here she was, looking very much as if she had moved on without a second thought….and looking hot as hell.

_This is ridiculous, Seeley_, he thought. _Walk away. _He snatched up his coffee, regretting that it was in a ceramic mug, not a cup he could take to go, and then he rebuked himself. This wasn't high school, for God's sake, and he'd be damned if she was going to ruin his precious alone time. He made the decision to hide out in the opposite corner, shielded by a tall display fixture containing coffee and accessories, and pretend that she wasn't there.

He hunched down in an overstuffed chair and buried himself in his iPhone. He tried to distract himself with games, news - anything, but he couldn't stop himself from peering between the shelves at what little he could see of her. At one point, she turned almost completely around, and he thought he'd been spotted, but she turned back after a few seconds and resumed her conversation, and he breathed a sigh of relief.

A few minutes later, a man he recognized to be an agent walked in, scanned the room, and approached Bones, bending down and kissing her fondly on the cheek. Booth nearly dropped his coffee, and watched them interact, his blood pressure rising by the second as he saw her smile at him flirtatiously, talk with him briefly, and then stand and hug him as he turned to go.

Booth couldn't take it any longer, and he launched himself from his seat, threw his mug on the table, and followed the agent outside. The agent disappeared down the sidewalk and around the corner, and Booth quickened his pace and followed, rounding the corner to suddenly find himself nearly nose to nose with the man.

"Agent Booth. What the hell are you doing here?" The agent stood his ground, clearly perturbed.

"Who the hell are you?" Booth countered angrily.

"Special Agent John Doggett. I'm Dr. Brennan's new partner. We are in the middle of an undercover investigation of a very dangerous group, and I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't cause a scene here, Agent Booth. You're going to blow our cover."

Booth nearly exploded with anger at this revelation. "You put _Bones_ undercover? What the hell were you thinking? She sucks at this stuff. She can't act her way out of a paper bag!"

"That's not been my experience with her, Agent Booth. She's gotten more information out of them than any of my people, and I trust her."

"Yeah, well, it looks to me like you're using this opportunity to put the moves on her," Booth growled.

"I promise you, Agent Booth, my motives are pure. We are undercover. I have the utmost respect for her, and I would never take advantage of her. She's pretty wrecked right now, anyway," he said, pausing to give Booth an incriminating look. "There's no way in hell would I cross that line."

"Whatever," mumbled Booth angrily. "Just…don't put her in harm's way, okay? She can be a renegade. Who's this group she's with, anyway?"

"You know I can't give you that information, Booth. You're no longer with the FBI. And since she's no longer your responsibility, and since you're going to make it very difficult for her to maintain her cover if she sees you, I'm going to need you to leave now."

Booth stared daggers through Doggett, hating him for filling the role that had been his, even though he didn't want it anymore.

"Booth. I need you to walk away. Now." Doggett held his ground firmly, unintimidated.

Booth's jaw clenched, but he backed down, realizing it was futile to press the issue. He angrily pushed past Doggett and headed down the sidewalk in search of his car.

_Asshole_, thought Doggett, shaking his head, climbed back into the SUV to wait for Brennan.

**#############**

Five minutes later, Brennan rounded the corner and climbed into the passenger seat of Doggett's SUV.

"Did you hear all that?" she asked eagerly. "I was good! They want me to come to their next meeting. They're going to introduce me to their…" she trailed off when she realized that Doggett was lost in thought.

He looked at her after a moment, realizing that she had stopped mid-sentence. "Yes, I heard that. That's great. I lost the audio after I came back outside, though. Did I miss anything?"

"No, not really. It sounds like they are planning a fairly large-scale demonstration soon. I just cannot figure out how this all fits together. They are a little odd, but how they are connected to the victims is still unclear. I would like to go to their meeting on Wednesday to meet with their leader."

"We'll talk about it later," said Doggett. "I'm not sure that's such a great idea. It stands to reason that, if anyone in the group is responsible for the deaths of our three victims, it's the leader."

"We don't know that," countered Brennan. "It could easily be someone who opposes their views and is murdering them because of it."

"True, but if you're posing as one of them, then that puts you in harm's way."

"Agent Doggett, they seem to trust me. You can't send another agent in without having to put her through the vetting process with them that I just went through."

"You have a good point," Doggett said. "But if we do this, it'll take some arm-twisting before Hacker lets you go."

Just then, his phone rang, and he answered quickly. He listened for a few minutes with a scowl, then hung up and looked at Brennan.

"That was one of my guys. Remember Stacy White's roommate, Katie Lopez? She's missing."


	11. Chapter 11

_Okay folks… I really tried to get you an update yesterday, but it just didn't work out. Here's the next installment for you. _

_Oh, and I just opened up a new twitter account, so follow me and I'll follow back! I'd love to chat about Bones, writing, and other stuff. Look me up! My username is the same as here: ladyjanegrey777._

_Here we go…._

**Chapter 11**

Booth drove back to Camp Peary in a daze. He had not anticipated that seeing Bones would rattle him as much as it did. The past several weeks at The Farm had been great – he had been too busy to think about her, which had allowed his anger to wane, and he was able to keep his mind off of where he had left things with her because he knew he wouldn't have to see her anytime soon. It had been extremely easy to tell himself that he was done with her when he was sequestered to a secret military compound three hours away. But seeing her in the coffeehouse, knowing that she had a new partner, seeing that they were working together as closely as Booth had with her…well, frankly, it pissed him off. But more than that, it made him ache for her.

He was furious at himself for his crumbling resolve, and unconsciously pushed the speed limit as he drove away from D.C., desperately trying to escape the pull he felt to turn around, drive directly to her house, and show up on her doorstep begging for forgiveness.

No way. He would not debase himself in that way. He had to remain true to his decision to start anew. The sooner he could drive through those secure gates of the CIA training facility and lock himself behind their confines, the more secure he'd feel in that decision.

**#########################**

Doggett and Brennan had found no leads on Katie Lopez, and Doggett was growing increasingly frustrated. A search of her apartment had turned up troubling evidence of foul play: the place had been ransacked, and it appeared that she had been attacked in her sleep and pulled forcefully out of bed, judging by the trail of sheets leading from the bed to the living room. There was a large bloodstain on the wall near the front door. After that, the trail ran cold, with no indication as to who had taken her. The only thing they had to go on was her comment Jacob's attempt to recruit her to the Handmaidens. That Jacob had contacted her was worrisome, and with what they suspected of him, they feared that Katie's time was running out. It was this reason alone that Hacker reluctantly approved Brennan's request to go undercover once again.

On Wednesday afternoon, Brennan received a message from Ashley with directions to the home in Cheverly where they would be meeting, and was given explicit instructions to come alone and not to tell anyone where she was going. "It's a secret group – we just have to protect ourselves from people who don't understand us," she had explained. Brennan printed out the directions in her office as Doggett ran through last-minute details.

"Once again, I'll be close and we'll have you wired," he said. "I want you to be as unobtrusive as possible, Dr. Brennan. Be a fly on the wall. Be compliant. Don't inflame or ask any prodding questions. Just observe – we're still trying to build a profile on this group, and the more firsthand knowledge we can get, the better. Our objective is to get you in front of Jacob so that you can get a read on him."

Brennan hesitated. She wasn't good at reading people. She'd gotten better over the years, working with Booth and learning from his knack for such a thing. But it wasn't science, so it mostly baffled her.

"All I can do, Agent Doggett, is make observations based on my anthropological experience."

"And that's why, unfortunately for me, you're the perfect person for the job."

"What should I do if I see Katie Lopez in there? She will recognize me."

"My gut tells me that she won't be there. She's being held against her will, and I don't think Jacob would risk parading a prisoner around the place knowing that you, a new recruit with no knowledge of how they really are, will be there. Too risky. You'd blow their cover. No, if he has her, she's locked up somewhere away from outsider's eyes."

She nodded, already considering ways she could search the house without being noticed.

As if reading her mind, Doggett said, "And Dr. Brennan, please don't do anything stupid. If you get caught nosing around, you could be in a world of hurt with these people. I've heard that have a mean right hook," he smirked at her, recalling how she'd taken down Agent Page, "but I'd really prefer not to blow our cover by having to send in SWAT to save your ass. Just get in, attend the Bible study, and get out. Understand?"

She sighed, frustrated once again with the painfully slow evidence-gathering process in cases such as this. A girl's life was in danger, and they had to take pains to make sure all laws were followed. She wished that Doggett could send a team in to barge in, take down Jacob, and tear the place apart in order to find Katie. They just did not have enough evidence.

"Dr. Brennan, I'm very serious, okay? I can't let you go in there unless you promise me that you will follow my lead. I can't have you getting hurt."

She agreed reluctantly, and they stood to leave.

"You'll take your own vehicle, and I'll follow you in the truck. We'll come back and get it, grab an early dinner, and then we'll meet up with the agents who are coming with me as backup. Right now, though, we need to swing by the Hoover and talk to Dr. Sweets, who has some basic profile information on groups like this."

Brennan gathered her purse and a change of clothes and followed him, anticipation growing over what the evening would hold.

**######################**

"Cult leaders are strongly egocentric personalities who are basically fundamentalists-gone-bad," said Sweets, as Doggett and Brennan sat down at the conference room table. "Fundamentalists are not all bad," he qualified. "In Christianity, for example, a fundamentalist would be considered someone who sincerely believes in all aspects of the Bible as being true with no errors. However, a broader, more psychological definition would be 'one who believes in a world of black & white issues; and that he or she is fully right and others are fully wrong.' Such a definition of fundamentalism then may also include those who are not affiliated with any religious groups or ideals at all, but channel their fundamentalist thinking into politics or psychology."

"So that's why this group, which looks like a blend of politics and religion, isn't that far off the charts as far as cults go," Doggett said.

"Right," answered Sweets. "While we don't know much about them specifically yet, I will say that it isn't out of the ordinary for a religious cult to be borne out of an extreme political agenda. They tend to justify their extremist views by backing them up with a twisted view of Scripture."

Brennan chimed in, "Well, anytime someone takes a book such as the Bible that is a historical record at best, full of fairy tales and myths, and attempts to build a rigid structure of rules and ideals with it, it's going to fail."

Doggett looked at her curiously. "A lot of people are comforted by the Bible's teachings, Dr. Brennan. It's our moral compass. Without it, we would be a lawless society. It keeps us on track."

"There are no moral absolutes, Agent Doggett," she stated. "Our morals are merely social norms that we have put in place to ensure the survival and success of our society. Organized religion has grown out of the instinctual need to have a common moral code, but, as we have seen throughout history, it corrupts…"

"We can debate the pros and cons of organized religion at a later time," interrupted Sweets, knowing that Brennan could argue about religion for hours. He cleared his throat and continued: "There are many Christians who consider themselves fundamentalists, and who lead normal, healthy lives with no harm to their family or social circles. However, there are others who make fundamentalism itself a religion. Many communists, fascists, and even some ultra-right or ultra-left wing political groups, for example, are fundamentalist in their thinking, often to the detriment of others."

"That's an understatement," said Doggett. "I'd say murder – if that's what this guy is doing – is a detriment to others. But how, if these people are fundamentalists, do they get around 'Thou shalt not kill'? Doesn't that contradict their fundamentalism?"

"Yes, but the Bible is full of seeming contradictions, especially when specific parts of it are taken out of context. A power-hungry leader can twist the scriptures to serve whatever purpose he wants. The cult leader is all about control, and so he will brainwash his subjects – who are usually very emotionally vulnerable people - into believing that he has a direct connection to God. This is why we've seen things like Jonestown, Waco, and Heaven's Gate - people take their own lives for the sake of their leader because they believe that he's a prophet. Others, who doubt or question, are severely punished."

"So, you think that these girls who were murdered were detractors?" Doggett posited.

"It is highly likely. Which means, Dr. Brennan, that you must play the part of an eager, obedient disciple." Sweets looked at her pointedly. "You absolutely cannot let the skeptic in you come out, or you'll be marked as a troublemaker from the get-go. No debates on organized religion or subjective morality, okay?"

Doggett stood, indicating that they needed to leave. Brennan rolled her eyes at Sweets. "I am intelligent enough to know my boundaries." She stood and gathered her things. "Besides, I find that this will be a fascinating observation of a micro-society of this sort. I promise to keep my mouth shut."

Sweets turned and headed for the counter for a warm-up of his coffee. "Okay. Because you know Booth will have my hide if you…" Sweets froze, realizing what he was saying. The words had poured from his mouth out of habit, and he reddened as he turned to see Brennan's face, which registered a look of anguish. Doggett was frozen at the door.

"Oh, god, Dr. Brennan. I'm sorry. I wasn't thinking…"

She waved her hand dismissively, but her face was pale. "No, really, it's fine. Your mouth slipped."

He smiled weakly. "Um, yes. Slip of the tongue, you mean."

She nodded and turned to go, and then stopped suddenly in the doorway as realization dawned. "Dr. Sweets, you've talked to him, haven't you?" She turned and looked at him with eyes full of suspicion.

Sweets looked at his shoes in shame. "Uh, yeah. He called me this morning. He was grilling me about your new partner and about you being undercover."

"How did he know?"

Doggett spoke up. "That's partially my fault. He showed up at the coffeehouse Sunday while you were inside. I had to tell him to leave – he was about to cause a scene, and I was afraid he was going to endanger our case."

Brennan felt like the air was being sucked out of the room. "He was there? Why didn't you tell me?"

"I didn't feel that it was going to do any good for you to know, Dr. Brennan. He was shocked to see you, as you would have been to see him. I think his being there was a coincidence, but considering the way he reacted to me, I thought it would hurt you more to know."

Brennan felt the anger rising within her. She glared at the two men. "So both of you have had contact with Booth this week, and neither one of you felt it was important to tell me? Neither one of you have the right to discuss anything with Booth regarding me! It's none of his business what I'm working on right now, and my relationship with him is none of _your_ business."

Sweets spoke up, his voice gentle. "Dr. Brennan, it sounds like Agent Doggett handled it the right way. He didn't tell Booth anything about you other than what was absolutely necessary, and only because there was a chance that you would see him and blow your cover. My conversation with him was similar. I told him I couldn't give him any information – which I can't. He's not with the FBI anymore. I could get fired for discussing cases with him. He didn't mention that he had seen you on Sunday. Now I understand a little better why he called me."

Brennan's shoulders sagged a bit as her fury was taken down a notch. Her gaze shifted to a distant spot out the window. "How did he sound?" she asked, her tone clipped.

Sweets answered with a shrug. "Like himself. Only drunk. And pushy. I told him to let it go."

When she said nothing, he felt the need to fill the silence, reverting to psychology because it was comfortable. "When someone leaves a job after so many years, it can be hard for him to relinquish control emotionally. I suspect that is what's happening her, Dr. Brennan."

Brennan nodded slowly, considering this. "You are right. I hope he can find fulfillment in his new job." She turned and left the room, her mouth set in a thin line. Doggett followed her, unsure of what to say to her once they were alone.

Sweets watched them go, and let out the breath he had been holding in a long, slow exhalation. Because he had not wanted to raise false hope in her, he did not share with her his suspicions behind the true nature of Booth's call, but it was fairly obvious: whether Booth would admit it to himself or not, he was missing Brennan.


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter 12

Brennan made her way to the parking garage with a silent Doggett in tow. The news that Booth had been checking up on her was unnerving. Sweets was correct: of course Booth would have trouble relinquishing control of his job. He had invested much of himself to his work over the years, and as she thought about it, it made sense to her that he would find it difficult to detach. That her name was brought up in the conversation with Sweets was the part that bothered her; she felt as if he was trying to control her involvement in this case, even though it wasn't his. Already feeling as if Doggett and Sweets were babysitting her, the fact that Booth was attempting to do the same thing from afar made her claustrophobic and angry.

They reached the parking garage, and she climbed in Doggett's SUV and slammed the door. He opened his door and paused before climbing in. "Dr. Brennan, please know that my only motive for not telling you about Booth was concern for your feelings. Considering the conversation we had just had about him on Sunday afternoon, I just didn't think it was a good idea to share."

Brennan looked down into her lap. "I'm a big girl, Agent Doggett. I can handle Booth and his actions," she muttered.

"I know," he said, finally sliding in behind the wheel. He put the keys in the ignition but didn't turn the switch. Turning in his seat towards her, he said, "Look, I apologize for keeping that from you. It wasn't meant as a breach of trust. I have great respect for you and care about you as a friend, and I was just trying to look out for you."

Brennan sighed. "I know. I'm sorry for being angry. I just wish he would leave me alone. If this is what he wants, then he needs to quit…turning up everywhere."

Doggett nodded and turned on the truck. On the drive back to pick up her car, Brennan did more brooding, and by the time they had reached the lab, she knew one thing for sure: she was weary of everyone looking out for her. She was going to show Booth, Sweets, Doggett, and anyone else who cared that she could handle herself, even if she had to take down Jacob single-handedly.

**####################**

Booth trudged out to the firing range, reflecting on that morning's disastrously humiliating phone call to Sweets. He had been slightly hung-over, tired, and had awakened that morning after having some alcohol-induced dream with Bones in it. He woke up angry and had called Sweets impulsively to lodge his complaint about Bones being undercover with someone who obviously didn't know her and her danger-prone ways.

Sweets had told him to butt out. As much as it pissed Booth off to hear it, he knew that Sweets was right. He had to let it go. Bones wasn't his responsibility anymore, as Doggett had reminded him, and he really did need to focus on his new job. He had a little over two weeks left of training, and then he would be out in the field again. Because of his expertise as a sniper and his impeccable record as an agent, they had assigned him a unique position that was a blend of intelligence gathering and field sniper duties.

His superior had already brought him in on some chatter they had received about a homegrown terrorist cell with anti-Israel leanings that was located somewhere in the greater D.C. area. Their intelligence had uncovered the purchase of large amounts of bomb making materials, and the information Booth's supervisor had received pointed to a possible suicide attack sometime this spring. Booth was to assist in gathering intel, but was also to be on high alert in case he was needed to take out a bomber at a moment's notice.

Booth was looking forward to the opportunity. His cosmic balance sheet did not apply to assholes who wanted to kill Americans in their own country.

It had been awhile since he had had to use his sniper rifle, and as he stepped onto the range, he pushed Bones to the back of his mind, ready to sharpen his rusty skills. He was ready to focus on the task at hand, to be fully present, and to give all of his mental faculties to his new mission. That it didn't include Bones could no longer concern him.

**##############**

After a quick dinner with Doggett and the other two agents, Brennan changed into clothes that were a better match for her undercover persona, put on the hidden mic, and took off for Cheverly with Doggett following at a safe distance in his truck. After an uneventful twenty-minute drive, Brennan pulled onto the tree-lined street that Ashley had directed her to, found the house number, and parked on the curb. The house was a modest tract home with red brick and black trim, small and unassuming, framed by a large front lawn that was neatly trimmed but not overly landscaped. There were no other cars in front of the house, causing Brennan to worry that she had the wrong house.

"Going up to the house now. It doesn't look like there are any other people here," she said, addressing Doggett softly over the mic as she walked up the drive. She rang the doorbell, and before long, the door opened, revealing Ashley's smiling face.

"Hello, sister Joy. Come in! We are so happy you are here!" she gushed, pulling Brennan inside.

"Thank you," said Brennan. "Am I…early? I didn't see any other cars out front."

"No, right on time. There are no cars because we live here. You will, too, if you pass Jacob's test."

Brennan hesitated momentarily, wondering if they intended to take her in as a resident tonight.

"Don't worry," laughed Ashley, reading her expression. "You'll feel right at home here. You'll see how it all works soon enough, and then you'll be rushing home to pack your things to move in!"

Ashley led her through the house and down a flight of stairs, which opened at the bottom to a much larger room that must have been dug out underground. It was spacious enough to hold the thirty or so women that were milling about, its white walls and cement floor completely void of any décor, and the pungent odor of incense filled the room.

Ashley grabbed Brennan's hand said, "Come on, let me introduce you to everyone!" She led her through the group, introducing her to each young woman, each of whom hugged her and said, "Welcome!"

After they had made their rounds through the room, a bell chimed, and a hush fell among the women. They all made their way towards the center of the room and sat on the floor in tidy rows of four across. Brennan watched as they bowed their heads in unison.

Ashley leaned over and said, "Let's sit in the back. Follow my lead, okay? It seems a little weird at first, but we have a reason behind everything we do. It's really beautiful." She led Brennan to the back row, where they sat and bowed their heads as well.

The bell chimed another time, and Brennan could hear the shuffling of feet at the front of the room.

It was quiet for a few minutes, and then a man's soothing voice addressed the group:

"Sisters. Handmaidens of Mercy. My beautiful and perfect daughters. As you near the day of your atonement, you must purify yourselves and be ready for the coming battle that we have been appointed to fight. As a vessel of God, appointed to speak his words to your hearts, I am here to assist in that purification through the washing of water and through the holy communion of purifying drink. We do not take this ceremony lightly, for we know that only through purification can we truly be cleansed and made fit for the work that is before us.

"As we have sadly learned, fire and brimstone awaits those who refuse this calling of purity. Despite their sin and hard-heartedness, we remember our beloved lost ones with sadness. Let us take a moment to reflect on their lives, and remember the hope that we have that we will be made pure and escape the same fate as they."

He paused, and the room was filled with the sound of weeping, prayer, and even some singing.

After several minutes, he said, "And now, we will pass the cup of fellowship, which will purify you from your sin and redeem you for this great calling."

Brennan lifted her head and saw that the women had done the same. Jacob (as she presumed him to be) lifted up a large chalice from a table behind him and gave it to a woman on the front row. She drank deeply, bowed her head, and passed it to her right.

As the cup was being passed, Brennan nudged Ashley and whispered, "What is that they're drinking?"

Ashley whispered back, "It's just wine. Don't worry. You don't have to drink it because you're not part of us yet."

After the cup made its way back to where Brennan was seated, Ashley drank from it and passed it to the woman on the other side of Brennan, who drank, and then stood and took it to the front of the room.

"Soon, my daughters, we will take up arms against the great scourge of evil that has overtaken this country. We will bruise the heel of the enemy, striking a heavy blow to his agenda. Lives will be saved because of your devotion and willingness to sacrifice all. Prepare your hearts. The day draweth nigh.

"Now," said Jacob, fixing his attention on Brennan, "we have a newcomer in our midst. I trust that you have all been blessed to meet Joy. I would like us to surround her and lay hands on her, blessing her as she begins the journey towards holiness with us."

Ashley nudged Brennan, signaling her to stand, and the women in the group immediately hemmed her in on all sides. They laid hands on her, and then Jacob led them in a prayer, thanking God for bringing her to them.

When the prayer was finished, the women stepped away, parted by the presence of Jacob, who was making his way toward her. When he reached her, he reached out his hand and lifted her chin gently to look into her eyes.

"My child, you are lovely. I believe that it is providence that has brought you to us – to me. I have heard of your incredible heart for the Kingdom, and your compassion and mercy for the unborn. Your work has been tireless, and you are a good and faithful servant to God. I have asked him about your worthiness, and have received an answer. You are fairer than all women, and God has told me that you are to inherit the seat at my right hand as your eternal reward."

He bent down and kissed her lightly on both cheeks. Brennan resisted the urge to recoil: his presence was repulsive and serpent-like, and she felt defiled at his touch.

"Soon you will come and live with us, and you will make your home with me. This is the way of your salvation. You will leave your father and mother and will become one with us."

Brennan nodded and smiled weakly, making every attempt to appear grateful and willing. Everything within her was urging her to run from Jacob's grasp, but she was desperate to keep her cover intact.

"Do you have anything to say, beautiful one?" Jacob asked.

"When?" she whispered. "When can I come and live with you?"

"Soon, child. No one knows the day or the hour, but you will be with us soon. God has mighty plans for you, and you will learn of them soon." He clasped both of her hands and kissed her again, this time on the lips. Then he turned, and disappeared through the crowd of women, and she did not see him for the rest of the evening.

Ashley rushed up to Brennan as soon as Jacob was gone. "Oh, Joy! I am so happy for you! Not only does Jacob accept you, but he has also given you a place of honor among us! He has been so grieved about losing his Brides, but now he has chosen you!"

Brennan was horrified, but only smiled in demure acceptance. "That is wonderful. Can you explain to me what I am supposed to do? What does it mean to be Jacob's Bride?"

Ashley's face went solemn. "It is a great responsibility, but it's also a high honor. You will be privileged to know Jacob's most private thoughts and plans. You will be required to cut all ties with the outside world, so no contact with family, and that boyfriend of yours will have to move on to greener pastures! But you'll see that nothing compares to life here with Jacob."

"So…as a Bride, is this an actual…bride in the literal sense?" Brennan asked, afraid of what the answer would be.

Ashley laughed. "Oh, you mean…well, no one really knows because Brides are not allowed to talk about their lives with Jacob. But our group is celibate. It's the highest path to holiness. Jacob believes that with all of his heart, so I would think that it also applies to his Brides. But he is wise and knows what's best, so you can trust him."

"Brides? Are there more than one?"

"There are three. Two others who have just joined us, and you. You complete the trinity! Oh, I know Jacob is so happy."

"Who are the other two? Did I meet them tonight?" Brennan asked.

"Oh, no. Jacob found them and we haven't been introduced to them yet. They are others who, like you, were outsiders. He's been looking for a long time for suitable candidates, and he's finally found all of you."

"Where did he find them?" Brennan knew she was dangerously close to prying, but she couldn't help wonder if Katie Lopez was one of his "candidates."

"Not sure. But we all trust that God himself has led Jacob in his selection."

Brennan smiled in faux happiness. "So, now that I'm here, can you tell me what you have planned? What is this battle that Jacob spoke of?"

"Only the Brides and Jacob know fully the plans he has for us. We will know when the time is right. You heard Hilary talk about our big event on the steps of the Supreme Court in a few weeks? I think that is the 'appointed time' he keeps talking about. It won't be a typical protest, but that's all I know."

"What does a 'typical protest' look like?"

Ashley's eyes lit up. "You know, demonstrating, providing graphic props and pictures, general civil disobedience. But this – this will outdo them all."

A few of the other women came around to wish Brennan well and congratulate her on her new status within the group, and then Ashley said, "You should go home now and get your house in order. He'll be calling you to join him soon." She began to make her way upstairs, and Brennan followed.

"What…I don't know what that means. Do I give up my apartment? Pack clothes?"

"No, don't worry about any of that. Jacob wants us to keep our homes intact as much as possible. Since we are a secret group, he wants us to keep all appearance of normal life to the outside world. We work, we go out on the weekends, we lead normal lives. The only thing that changes is where we sleep. To an outsider, we just seem very busy. Anyway, I will call you when it's time. You'll have a few days' notice. It's all up to Jacob and his perfect timing."

They passed through the kitchen, where several of the women were conversing over a plate of cookies, and when they reached the front door, Ashley said, "So, do you run? We should go running sometime. I'm always looking for an accountability partner."

"I usually jog on The Mall trail every morning around six. You are welcome to join me any day."

"Wonderful! I just might do that! So, thanks for coming! I'm so excited about you coming to live here!" Ashley hugged her and saw her out.

"Hope you got all that," Brennan said to Doggett as she headed down the sidewalk to her car. "I'm coming to you right now."

When she got into her car, her cell phone was ringing. She glanced at the display and answered.

"Good job, Dr. Brennan!" Doggett's voice was full of pride. "Don't come to us. You may be watched. Let's meet up once we get out of Cheverly. Founding Fathers okay?"

Brennan cringed at the meeting place he had chosen, but agreed and set off, eager to spend some quality time with "normal" people again. Normally, she liked undercover work, but doing it alone was much more nerve-wracking than she imagined. She worked best when she had Booth to play off of, and going it alone now made her feel unsure of herself. She had been on edge the entire night, afraid of saying the wrong thing, Booth's familiar way of admonishing her -_"Bones!" _in that half-whisper of his - ringing through her mind.

**#######################**

The Founding Fathers was quiet, and as Brennan stepped through the entrance, she regretted immediately that she had agreed to this meeting place. She was instantly hit with a barrage of memories: drinks with Booth. Angela and Hodgin's baby announcement. Booth's birthday. Booth.

She had not set foot in this place since that night almost six weeks ago, when she had found Booth after his breakup with Hannah. Despite the awkwardness and his unkind words to her when she first arrived, the latter half of their time here had been the last time things were "normal" between them. And then, somehow, it had all come apart at the seams.

Brennan choked back the growing tightness in her throat, shaking off the heaviness that pressed in. She noticed Doggett at a table in the back, so she made her way through the crowd and sat.

"So," he said, standing as she approached. "You did great. I think that was the creepiest group I've seen in awhile – and that's saying something."

"Thanks. It was very strange, and for some reason I feel as if I need to take a shower now," smirked Brennan.

"I'll say! Jacob is a slimy individual. He sure took to you, horny bastard. He'll be pretty bummed out when he realizes that you won't be coming back."

Brennan looked at Doggett in disbelief. "Agent Doggett, we haven't gotten any solid evidence from them yet. I need to go back in if we are going to find out anything else about his plans."

"No way, Brennan. No way in hell am I letting you go back in. Regardless of what Ashley said about their 'purity,' I can guarantee that his plans for you do not include respecting your boundaries, if you know what I mean."

"Agent Doggett, we owe it to the victims' families to follow this through. It's highly likely that Katie Lopez is one of the 'Brides' he's recently taken. She could be in grave danger. And I don't think it is a coincidence that he recently lost his last three Brides. I have no evidence to support it, but our three victims could very well be the three."

"Which is exactly my point. You go in there and he tries to put the moves on you and you refuse, he'll know right away that you're not 'fit,' or whatever he calls it. You'll end up like the others. No way, Dr. Brennan."

Brennan was agitated. "Then how do you suggest we find Katie? There's no other way to get in to that house. It's swarming with people. The logical thing to do would be to follow through. Without emotional attachments, he would be unable to manipulate me. I would simply be doing a job."

"Dr. Brennan, it may be logical to you, but it's not rational to sacrifice your dignity here. We're not spies. There's a line – especially since you are a civilian and not an agent. I've already gone against my better judgment by putting you in there as it is, but I will not allow you to be used as that man's plaything. We'll figure something out. At the very least, we can stake the place out. You continue to build your relationship with Ashley. Maybe running with her will get her to open up some more."

"And when they call on me to move in, Agent Doggett, how do you want me to handle that?"

Doggett thought for a moment. "Tell them you've been sent overseas for work. As soon as that call comes, we'll move you to a secure location to keep you from being spotted. We'll just have to find another way to take this guy down."

Brennan was not happy at this turn of events. She made her opinion known to Doggett, but he held fast in his position. Realizing that the subject was closed for discussion, she resigned herself to the matter, ordered tequila, and eagerly let it carry her to a state of relaxed detachment from the events of the last several weeks.

_Oh, the places we'll go… stay tuned, my friends. It's about to get __**very**__ interesting…_


	13. Chapter 13

_I was determined to get you guys an update today… and I have succeeded, with twenty-five minutes of the day still remaining. See how much I love you?_

_Oh, and an early "Happy Bones-and-Booth-Stuck-In-An-Elevator Day" wish to everyone! I can't tell you how excited I am about this episode! _

Chapter 13

_Fire spewed from the doors and windows of the warehouse. At the back of the complex, an explosion, the shattering of glass, blackness billowing out each orifice of the building. He shielded his face from the heat, coughing and choking on the smoke, his eyes burning. He had to find her. He pushed through the darkness, unseen obstacles tripping him up, sparks and ember falling around him. A creaking, then a collapse as the roof gave way above him. He could hear her coughing, choking, crying – "BOOTH!" His legs would not move, as if stuck in cement. He could not reach her…_

Booth sat up, heart pounding violently. This was the latest in a series of nightmares that had plagued him each morning this week. Today, it was a burning building. Yesterday, it had been Kenton and his dogs. Before that, they were drowning. In every one, he was too late - he could not save her.

He ran a shaking hand through his hair, damp with perspiration, and took a few deep breaths to calm his racing heart. It was well before dawn, but he was fully alert and decided that he would go for a run to release the adrenaline that was currently redlining in his system.

Swinging his legs over the flimsy frame of the dorm room bed, he padded over to the chair and pulled on his track pants and a discarded t-shirt from the night before. He heard his roommate, Steve, rouse from his sleep.

"Another nightmare, man?" came his disembodied voice in the darkness.

"Yeah. Sorry. It's only 4:45," whispered Booth as he pulled on his shoes. "I'm going for a run."

"Yeah, right. Dude, Booth, why don't you just call her?"

Booth froze at the door. His stomach twisted at the thought.

"No." He yanked the door open, flooding the cinderblock room with light from the hallway. "I'll see you at breakfast."

Once he had cleared the front doors of the dorm, he immediately broke into a full-out run, his feet pounding the pavement, desperately trying to escape the visions that haunted him.

Normally the emotion from the nightmares lingered only a few minutes after he woke up, but as he neared the last lap of his five-mile run, he could not shake the sense of impending doom that still hovered like a cloud.

**#################**

Brennan was in her office by seven on Friday morning. Ashley had once again not shown up to run with her, so she cut today's run short so she could get to work ahead of the rest of her team. She was finding it difficult to concentrate, though, and found her mind wandering to Booth as she stared at her notes.

Sweets would say that she was currently encountering the anger part of the grief process. While she was not entirely convinced that he was correct, the letter she had written to Booth was still sitting sealed on her desk at home, and in light of recent events where he was concerned, she was now unsure what she would do with the letter. She was angry with him, and her anger grew by the day. He had attempted to insert himself into her life not once, but twice over the course of the last week. It wasn't fair: he was the one who cut ties, and yet he continued to try to pull strings behind the scenes to manipulate with whom and how she worked.

She was tired of the whole thing. Though she knew it was irrational, she was angry with him for robbing her of valuable mental energy. She needed to work. Exasperated, she shut her files, stood, and headed for Angela's office.

She knew that Angela would not be there for at least another 30 minutes, but she found her office to be soothing. She looked through Angela's artwork while she waited, flipping through a bin that contained several canvases of works that were complete. Most were beautiful abstracts, resplendent in color and stimulating in tone. Brennan studied each one, inspired by the mood and tone her friend had captured so magically.

Angela was most skilled at portraiture, but Brennan loved her mixed media work the best, and in the corner, Brennan rediscovered her favorite: a piece that was laden with raw umber and olive drab, with a silhouette of a woman standing in a doorway in the upper right hand corner, which Angela had fashioned out of the door a miniature antique birdcage. It gave the illusion that the woman was imprisoned, and yet there was hope expressed in the light Angela had painted behind her. The piece was hauntingly beautiful to Brennan. She had always been drawn to Angela's work; it spoke to a part of her she rarely expressed.

"Sweetie, I've told you just to take that old thing home," came Angela's voice from the doorway. She put her purse down and walked over to join Brennan.

"I might just do that, Ange. I love it."

"Well, thanks. It's not my best, but if you like it, you can have it. Seriously. Now, what is up with you going to the creepy compound Wednesday night? Cam told me all about it when I called in yesterday – morning sickness was kicking my ass. Anyway, cult leader creep factor - ew!"

"Yes, it was quite unpleasant. I do wish I could go back, though. I don't feel that I got enough information, and I am afraid that Katie Lopez is being held against her will somewhere on the premises."

Angela's eyes were wide with fear. "Seriously? Did you find evidence?"

"No, Ange, but some of the things they told me… I don't know. Call it a…'gut feeling.'"

"Sweetie, you don't do 'gut feelings.'"

"I find that sometimes they are helpful in causing me to look at things differently than science would lead me to. I learned this from Booth and Doggett."

Angela looked at her dubiously. "Okay, whatever. So, did you get a good look at the leader?"

"Yes, that's why I'm here. Can you sketch him? I think it will be helpful to Agent Doggett and his team."

"Of course. Let me get my things."

After Brennan and Angela worked for several minutes, the face of Jacob began to take shape on Angela's sketchpad. Brennan talked her through the finishing touches, Angela made a few minor tweaks, and then she held up the paper for Brennan's final assessment.

"Angela, that is perfect," Brennan said, feeling as if he was leering at her through Angela's drawing. "Not only is the likeness spot on, but you also captured the look in his eyes perfectly. I will take this to Doggett so that they can begin tracking him down."

Angela promised to do some searching using her tools, and Brennan left to call Doggett.

**#####################**

Booth left the cafeteria after only playing with his breakfast, still tortured three hours later by the same sense of ill being, and decided that this feeling was more than a nightmare hangover; it was his gut. He returned to his room and changed for his morning classes, then snatched up his cell phone and dialed quickly, before he had the change to talk himself out of it.

"This is Cam."

He paused. "Hey. It's me."

He could hear Cam's long, slow inhalation on the other end of the line. "Seeley. What…how can I help you?" She was taking a tone of detached courtesy with him. It made him feel like an outsider – which he was, now.

"Cam. Hey, uh, listen, is…is everything okay there?"

"Of course. Identifying remains. Catching bad guys. I'd say that's better than okay."

He rolled his eyes. She was going to make him spell it out. "I mean, is uh…is Bones okay?"

She sighed. "You know, Seeley…. Yes. Yes, she's fine. In fact, she's here right now, working on a case with Angela. Would you like to speak with her?" she asked, exaggerating the question mark to make plain to him her thoughts on the subject.

"No!" he said quickly. "I just had a dream, and I was worried…okay. That's great. Good. Thanks Camille."

"Seeley, when are you going to cut this bullshit out? You're miserable. She's miserable. Just swallow your pride, apologize for whatever the hell you did to screw this whole thing up, and let's move on here."

"Can't, Cam. Sorry. Besides, I'll be out of the country for a while. I'm leaving tonight. They've got me working a case and I'm not even out of training yet…"

"That's just super, Mr. 007," she said sarcastically. "Real happy for you. Good luck, Seeley."

She hung up, and Booth stared at the phone, hurt by her curt tone. He hadn't expected Cam to be short with him, and it only added to the feelings of guilt and loneliness that were growing with each passing day.

**##################**

"You're not gonna believe this," Doggett said as he walked into Brennan's office and slapped a file down on her desk. "The Terrorist Threat Integration Center sent me down some intel this morning on chatter they received about a possible homegrown terror cell. Seems that several times this year, plastic explosives, a stinger missile, and other illegal weapons were sold on the black market to a group here in the D.C. area. Get this: in every case, the buyer was a woman."

"That is interesting," said Brennan, "although none of those girls seemed like the bomb-buying types. They don't seem to have the intelligence to think for themselves. They only seem capable of following Jacob."

"Yeah, follow him to blow something up. They may be all sweetness and light, but if I'm reading Sweets' profile of the group correctly, their sincere trust in him could cause them to go off the deep end for him. It just seems a little odd that here is this wacko group talking about a major event happening during one of their protests, a group that happens to be all women, and now we're receiving chatter that women are buying bomb-making materials? If that's coincidence, I'm afraid of the world we live in these days."

"So what do we do?" Brennan asked. "Once again, it's all merely conjecture, right?"

"Yes. For now. Have you heard from your 'friend' in the group?"

"Ashley? No. She hasn't shown up to run with me yet."

"The tighter you get in with her, the better. The timing is going to be hairy, because we don't know when they're going to want to come for you, but I think you need to fast track your relationship with her while you can. Send her a Facebook message. Meet her for dinner. Try and get some info out of her. If they're planning some sort of attack for the day the Supreme Court looks at the Partial-Birth Abortion Ban, which is what they told you at the coffeehouse, that's only two weeks away."

Brennan nodded and turned to her computer, composing a quick message to Ashley inviting her to meet that evening. She hit send, then turned back to Doggett.

"Angela made a sketch of Jacob based on my description of him," Brennan told him, standing to hand him the artwork. "It's really very close. She's running it through facial-recognition software as we speak."

"Great. I'll take this to my guys at the Hoover and see what we come up with on our end. In the meantime, lunch?"

Brennan smiled and reached for her purse. "Sure. But you're buying."

**####################**

Brennan and Doggett returned to the lab after lunch. They parted ways outside Brennan's office; Doggett set out to find Cam, and Brennan headed to her office to find Angela waiting for her. Angela stood and watched Doggett pass, eyebrows arched and a smirk on her face. "My, we're getting awfully cozy with Agent Blue Eyes, now, aren't we?"

Brennan stopped in front of her desk and looked at Angela in confusion.

"Oh, come on, honey," Angela laughed. "A two-hour lunch? You're enjoying his company. Admit it."

"Angela, while I admit that, yes, I find his company pleasant, there is absolutely nothing beyond that. We are work partners. He has become a good friend."

"Okay. Well, if I were you, I'd totally tap that," Angela said.

"I don't know what that means."

"Never mind, sweetie. So do you want to hear what I found on Jacob?" Angela sat on Brennan's couch and patted the cushion next to her.

"Of course." Brennan sat, and Angela pulled a mug shot from the folder she was holding.

"Meet Matthew Lawrence Taylor," she said, handing the photo to Brennan. "Born in Phoenix on February 6, 1961. His early life is pretty clean, a couple of misdemeanors in his teens for disorderly conduct and vandalism, but not much else. According to what I've been able to piece together, he lived in Phoenix through his teens, then moved to California and attended a Seventh Day Adventist college. He graduated in 1982 with a religion degree. This mug shot is from 1986, when he was arrested in Yorba Linda, California for the kidnapping and sexual assault of three young women who were part of a 'church' he started there. He was released soon after his arrest because, incredibly, all three women refused to bring charges against him and the state had insufficient evidence to hold him."

Brennan shook her head. "He got to them."

"Yeah, it sounds like that. I don't have much else yet, but I'll keep looking."

"I'll send this over to Doggett," Brennan said. "Good work, Ange."

"Yeah, well, this guy creeps me out big time, Bren. I'm really uncomfortable with you having such close contact with him - especially now that we know about his record with women."

"Well, don't worry. Doggett won't let me go back in, although, I must say, this makes me worry even more about Katie Lopez. We need to find something concrete that ties him to her disappearance."

"I'll keep digging." Angela put the photo back in her file folder and stood.

Brennan nodded. "Thanks, Ange. I'll tell Doggett."

**######################**

Brennan met Katie after work at a Chinese place on the other side of town. Even though it was Friday night, it was still early enough that the dinner rush had not yet begun. Brennan was pleased to find the restaurant fairly quiet, which was beneficial to her plans to record their conversation via a USB recorder that was hidden in her jacket.

She waited at the hostess stand for a few seconds, then spotted Ashley at a table towards the back of the room.

"Hey there!" greeted Ashley as Brennan approached. "I already ordered us water. Is that okay?"

Brennan sat. "Sure, although I was thinking a glass of wine sounds good."

Ashley's eyes widened. "You drink?"

"You…don't? Is that one of the rules?"

"'Do not become drunk with wine, for that is dissipation. Instead, be filled with the Spirit…'" Ashley quoted. "We just think it's better to remain free of strong drink. We are also vegetarians."

"So am I," said Brennan, grateful to turn the attention to food. "Vegan, or ovo-lacto?"

"We still eat eggs and milk, since it doesn't harm animals to do so."

Brennan was silent, resisting an overwhelming urge to launch into a scientific diatribe laden with facts on animal cruelty.

"So… how's your week been?" asked Ashley, her tone a little too bubbly.

"Oh, fine. Busy. The usual," said Brennan, attempting to keep it vague.

"I don't think I ever asked where you work. What do you do?"

"I'm in research," Brennan answered. "It's pretty boring, actually. What about you?"

"Oh, I work at a bank. I'm a teller. It's not that exciting, either, but it's a job. It's not my passion, though."

Brennan smiled at her as the waitress interrupted and took their order, providing a natural spot for Brennan to segue to another topic.

"So, tell me more about Jacob. I'm intrigued by him."

Ashley laughed. "You and everyone else! He's a fascinating, amazing man."

"How long have you known him?"

"Oh, wow, like a year. He moved here from Arizona, or New Mexico, I can't remember which now. Apparently he had a church out there, but he was misunderstood there. I think the experience really hurt him. They didn't appreciate the amazing prophetic gift he has. He hears directly from God."

Brennan, uninterested in the fluff, made another attempt at factual information:

"What about the big…event that we are planning?" Her voice took on a conspiratorial nature.

Matching her tone, Ashley lowered her voice. "Okay. I don't know any details, but I know that Jacob is planning something _big_. In his words, we are bringing down God's judgment on this nation with fire and brimstone."

"What does that mean? We aren't going to be hurting people, are we? I don't want to break the law."

"Come on, Joy! You've been arrested for civil disobedience before. I think Jacob is just trying a new approach – one that will get the attention of the world. God's laws are higher than man's. We answer to him alone. And we must be willing to lay down our lives for the cause."

"Honestly, Ashley, this is all a little scary to me. So you have no idea what Jacob is planning - specifically, I mean?"

Their food arrived and Brennan waited patiently as it was served to them. Once the waitress made certain that everything was satisfactory, Ashley looked around and lowered her voice. "I don't know, and I shouldn't be telling you this because you're not officially a Handmaiden yet. But I think Jacob's last three wives had something to do with the planning. Only, they messed it up somehow, so they paid the ultimate price. They sacrificed themselves for him."

"How?"

"They were offered a choice: be excommunicated and damned by Jacob, or drink the bitter cup and redeem themselves in eternity. They chose the bitter cup."

Brennan's heart was racing as she realized she was closing in on the confession they needed to arrest Jacob. She leaned in to ensure that the micro recorder would clearly pick up their conversation. "They drank the bitter cup – meaning they…poisoned themselves?"

"Well, yes, but they did so in order to redeem their souls in eternity. Jacob sanctified them with fire at our last temple ceremony, and they were returned to the land of their fathers and mothers."

Brennan felt nauseous, but smiled at Ashley nonetheless. "That is most definitely extreme devotion. I only hope that one day I can be willing to do the same."

Ashley reached across the table and took Brennan's hand, looking into her eyes sincerely. "I know this is all new to you, and I know that, on the outside, it can seem a little scary. Once you get to know Jacob, though, you will love him as we do, and you won't think twice about laying down your life for him. He deserves all of our love and devotion."

Brennan pushed her plate away, her appetite gone as the larger story of the group unfolded. Ashley took a few more bites, chatted on about Jacob and his signs and wonders, and Brennan paid the ticket.

When it was time to leave, Brennan said, "So, I'm going running in the morning. Care to join me?"

Ashley smiled. "I would love to, but I think Jacob has plans for us in the morning. Some project he has for us. Oh! I just remembered! I have a letter for you from Jacob! Would you mind stopping by my car with me?"

Brennan was hesitant, but her curiosity was aroused. She followed Ashley out to her car, and Ashley ducked into the back seat, seconds later emerging with a letter-sized brown envelope.

She handed the letter to Brennan, who gingerly held it by its edges, the forensic scientist in her unwilling to smudge any prints it might carry.

Brennan wished Ashley good night and made her way to her car, waiting until Ashley was well out of sight before climbing in and making the call to Doggett.

Doggett answered on the first ring. "Tell me you have something good, Dr. Brennan."

"I…have something good, if you can call what these people have done 'good.'" She steered the car onto the street and headed towards her side of town. "She couldn't tell me what their next event is going to be, but in vague terms, it appears to be something substantial – and illegal. However, she did admit that Jacob's last three wives poisoned themselves, possibly under duress, because they botched something that they were working on for him related to the demonstration they have planned. She even told me that they were 'sanctified with fire' at their last gathering."

"Can you bring it to me tonight? I'm still at the Hoover. We may have enough evidence for a warrant, if I can convince Caroline to bother the judge tonight."

It took Brennan less than fifteen minutes to reach the FBI building, and Doggett met her in the parking garage. She handed off the USB recorder to him, told him to call her as soon as the warrant was issued, and turned her car towards home, eager to relax.

**################**

Brennan took a different route home than normal, suddenly feeling the urge to stop off at her favorite wine store and pick up a few bottles of Cabernet for the weekend. She felt drained after the eventful week she'd had, and the undercurrent of angst towards Booth certainly did not help.

Tired as she was, she was not looking forward to facing the evening alone. The last thing she wanted was to go home and fret over Booth, drink too much, and lose all respect for herself in the process. She decided that a better course of action would be to pull out her computer and work on her latest novel, which she had not touched since the situation with Booth took a turn for the worst. She hadn't trusted herself to compose anything good in her current mental state, recalling what sort of writing she'd produced the last time she fretted over Booth following his brain surgery. Now, however, she was feeling more anger than anything, and she found herself suddenly dreaming of the various ways she could unleash her fury on Agent Andy.

She pulled into the parking lot behind her building, turned off her car, and reached for her purse in the seat next to her. As she opened her door to step out, she suddenly noticed the letter from Jacob on the seat where her purse had been. She had meant to give to Doggett along with the micro recorder.

She opened her glove box and pulled out a pair of latex gloves, then used a key to gently slice open the envelope. It contained a letter, handwritten on both sides, and as she pulled it out, a small computer chip fell out and landed in her lap. The dome light of the car was too dim to reveal the writing on the tiny chip, so she opted to give the items a thorough examination once she got into her apartment.

She felt the vice-like hands grab her from behind just before she reached the back door of her building. Survival instincts kicked in, and she struggled violently in an attempt to break free as her throat let forth a scream, which was instantly muffled by a gloved hand that clamped down on her mouth. She thrashed and kicked with all her might, but her attacker was at least twice her size. In one motion, he yanked both of her arms behind her back and threw her to the ground, her cheek taking the full force of her weight as she hit the pavement. She cried out in pain and in anger, and twisted with all her might until he subdued her, violently pressing the full weight of himself into her back with his knee, knocking the wind out of her.

She gasped for breath under his massive frame, and he forced her face into the ground with a hand on the back of her head. Her hands were swiftly bound, and then she felt the jab of a needle in her neck. Liquid heat rushed through her veins as she fought against the approaching fog. Her body went limp as paralysis set in. Then, within seconds, everything went black.


	14. Chapter 14

_Omigosh, you guys. What. about. that. EPISODE?_

_I'm still all full of fluffy feelings… so much so that I've had a VERY hard time writing an angsty story! _

_So, with that said, sorry for the delay. I will be better about updating this week!_

Chapter 14

Doggett dialed Brennan's number, concern mounting. Once again, there was no answer. It was early Sunday afternoon, and he had unsuccessfully been calling since 8:30 that morning. As he ended the call in futility, he felt the knots forming in his stomach.

He had been trying to call Brennan to update her on the case. Caroline had been unable to convince the judge to issue a warrant. Since Brennan was not a law enforcement agent, and since the only concrete evidence they had was testimony she had obtained using a hidden recorder, he was unwilling to authorize a raid. Doggett pleaded with Caroline, desperate to find Katie Lopez alive, and while she was sympathetic, there was no budging where the judge was concerned.

Doggett's mind raced now as he considered all the possibilities regarding why Brennan was not answering. He thought he remembered her mention something about spending the weekend writing, but he knew her well enough by now to know that she would not cut off all contact with the outside world, even when writing, since she was waiting to hear from him regarding the case.

He jumped into his vehicle and dialed again as he pulled onto the street towards her apartment. His call went straight to voicemail. _Battery's dead_, he thought grimly. _Damn it, Brennan! _ He punched the steering wheel in frustration, his foot pushing the accelerator to the floor.

Ten minutes later, he whipped the SUV into a spot on the curb in front of her building and rushed to her flat on the second floor, pounding on the door.

"Dr. Brennan!"

More pounding.

"Brennan, it's John! Open up!"

"I don't think she's home," a middle-aged woman called to him from several units down, her head the only part of her sticking out of the door. "I haven't seen her all weekend. She's a famous archaeologist, you know. Probably on one of her expeditions."

Doggett waved her off and sent a swift kick to Brennan's door, causing it to fly open violently. The neighbor gasped.

Doggett unholstered his gun as he peered inside. The neighbor was fully standing in the hallway now, hands on her hips. "You can't just break in like that, you know…."

"FBI, ma'am. Get back inside your apartment, please."

Her eyes widened in fear, and she quickly obeyed, the sound of her door slamming, followed by the click of the deadbolt, echoing through the hallway.

Doggett led with his gun as he entered Brennan's apartment. Everything was tidy, with no sign of struggle or theft. He swept each room, the empty silence that filled the apartment declaring her absence. Her bed was made up neatly, the kitchen free of dishes, her shower revealing no signs of recent use. Lowering his gun in defeat, he made his way back to the kitchen and found her answering machine, its light indicating awaiting messages. He scrolled through the message list to discover that the unheard messages dated back to Friday morning.

He tore out of her apartment and down the hall and banged on the nosy neighbor's door. "Ma'am, open your door, please!"

The woman's door opened slightly, still chained, revealing a portion of her moon-shaped face, her eyes wide with fear. "Y-yes?"

"Ma'am, have you seen anything unusual around here this weekend? Heard anything?"

"Is Dr. Brennan okay?" she asked, eyeing the gun holstered on his belt.

"I just need to find her. Please, can you think of anything – anything at all that struck you as odd around here during the past few days?"

"I – no, I don't think so… wait – I did hear some commotion out back a few nights ago. I didn't think anything of it – thought it was just some kids outside." She gasped. "Do you think something happened to Dr. Brennan?"

Doggett was already racing down the hall toward the back stairwell. Taking the stairs by twos, he made it to the ground floor within seconds, tore open the outside door, and quickly scanned the parking lot.

Her car was there, parked at the back of the lot. He jogged towards it, desperately scanning the area around it as he approached. The car had obviously been sitting for a while, its windshield spotted with several days' worth of dirt, leaves, and pollen. He tried the door handle and found it to be locked, and then he did a quick sweep around and under the car, searching for anything telling. Finding nothing, and forcing down the panic that was rising within, he willed himself to slow down and assess the scene methodically.

He widened his search area to a larger section around her car, scouring the parking lot for signs of struggle, dropped items, anything. Coming up empty, he increased his grid yet again, finally reaching the back door of the building, where he came up empty.

He stood on the back step of the building and looked out across the lot in frustration. While it was possible that she had stayed with Angela and Hodgins last night, it was improbable that she would let her phone go uncharged and fall out of communication for this long. He pulled out his phone and was about to place a call to Angela when a small object in the flowerbed next to him caught his eye.

He dropped to his knees to examine the object, gently lifting it out of the dirt with a pen. It appeared to be a small computer chip, similar to the guts of a thumb drive. Fishing a glove out of his jacket pocket, he carefully extracted the chip from the dirt and held it up, examining it in the sunlight. Finding no brand or other identifying markings besides a generic serial number, he wrapped the device in his loose glove and tucked it safely into his pocket.

He glanced around the flowerbed and noticed a brown envelope that had blown around the trunk of a shrub closest to the building, and when he pulled it loose, he saw the scrawl of handwriting that read, "Joy." He shook off the dirt, peered inside the opened envelope, and pulled out the letter it contained. The handwriting was large and quite feminine-looking, and was signed "Jacob." Doggett felt sick as he sat back on the step. Jacob – or someone associated with him – had likely followed Brennan to her building. If his suspicions were correct, the computer chip in his pocket was a tracker of some sort.

He chastised himself for his lack of attention – he should have kept a closer eye on Brennan. He opened his phone and placed the call for the crime scene unit, and then forced himself to make one of the most unpleasant phone calls of his career to Cam, to inform her that he had let the Jeffersonian's most valuable asset slip through his fingers.

**##################**

Booth stood on the balcony of his hotel room in Sana'a, Yemen's capital city, and listened to the sounds of the uprising taking place a few blocks away. When he landed a few days ago, the protests against the country's president were gaining momentum, and now, the scene was desperate and chaotic, as government loyalists had begun to open fire on the protestors. The conflict between the rebels and the government had surpassed the intensity the world had recently seen in Egypt and other Middle Eastern countries, and the pushback from the government had only served to further incite the violence among the dissenters.

He had been sent here to meet with an informant who had knowledge of the extremist group back in D.C. The problem was that the informant was in prison, and with the upheaval in the government, communication between the CIA and the Yemeni military had been strained and sporadic.

He was essentially quarantined to his room while he waited for word to come down the proper channels that he was able to meet with the prisoner; that is, if the said prisoner was even still alive. A fellow agent had warned him when he arrived that many of the political detainees were being picked off because of their anti-government leanings.

Booth had used the time confined in his room to review his files on the D.C. terror cell. Strongly anti-Israel in their leanings, there was chatter regarding an impending attack, possibly coinciding with an upcoming rally on the National Mall by a group called CUFI, or Christians United For Israel. CIA operatives had uncovered weapons sales that pointed to the possibility of one or more suicide bombings, and if such an attack were to happen during a political rally of this scale, it would be devastating to the country.

The bulk of their information pointed to Yasir al-Qadhi, a Yemeni-born activist who grew up in Gaza and who had ties with Hezbollah. The CIA suspected that he was recruiting Americans as well as radicalized Muslim students within D.C. and its surrounding region. All of their leads, though, had dead-ended, until they received the call from Yemen that an informant, who had shared a jail cell with al-Qadhi a few months back, had information and was willing to talk in exchange for political asylum.

Now the din from the city center increased, the nighttime air heavy with noxious smoke from cars set afire, and Booth stepped back into his room.

He pulled his personal phone from his bag and reclined on the bed, eager for some sleep. He had missed four calls, two of which were from Parker. The others could wait; he needed to talk to his son.

"Dad!" Parker's voice across the staticky line was like water to Booth's soul.

"Bud! How are you? You staying out of trouble?"

"Of course! How's being a secret agent going?"

Booth's heart swelled with love for his son. "It's great, bud. Although I'm sort of stuck in this hotel room right now, because…" Booth hesitated to tell Parker about the danger that was growing on the streets nearby. "…well, because I have to wait for my instructions before I can go anywhere. But enough of that. How are you? How's life back home?"

"Great! I get to start playing soccer again soon, and I've been going to practices still. Everybody signed my cast! It's cool! Oh, also, I have a girlfriend. Her name's Haley, and she's really cute. We're going out."

Booth tried to keep the chuckle at bay. "Really? Where are you taking her?"

"Daaaaad, that's what we call it when we like each other."

"Oh, right, bud. We used to call it 'going together.' Gotcha."

"How's Bones?" Parker seemed to have a knack for bringing her up when Booth was missing her most. His stomach did a flip.

"Um, I don't know. Haven't seen her in a while."

"I haven't either. She was supposed to call me this weekend and take me to a movie, but she never did. Oh, Dad, Mom says I have to go. It's way past my bedtime."

"Alright bud. Hey, listen, I'm sure Bones just got busy with a case. And tomorrow night, how 'bout we Skype?"

"Yeah! That would be so cool!" Booth could practically see Parker jumping up and down. He heard Rebecca in the background reminding Parker that it was bedtime, so he wished Parker a good night and signed off.

He sat on the edge of the bed for a few minutes, puzzled at Bones' lack of communication with his son. It was not like her to make a promise and then forget to follow through, even if Booth was out of the picture.

He looked at his phone again, noticing that one of the missed calls was from Cam. Worry surfaced as he realized that Cam would not have called arbitrarily, especially in light of his current estranged status with the entire Jeffersonian team.

Suddenly, he heard a loud explosion, and the hotel shook violently a few seconds later. Plaster from the ceiling fell around him in large chunks, and he heard shouting down the hall. Soon, another explosion followed, engaging the hotel's fire alarm and sprinkler system.

Booth snatched up all items of importance – his phones, laptop, gun, and sensitive files – and stuffed them in his messenger bag. Out in the hallway, confusion and panic reigned among the guests as smoke began to fill the building. Booth hurriedly directed people to follow as he made his way down the hall. He ushered frightened women and children down the stairs with him, and then followed the stream of guests to the bar, where the police were already evacuating people through a back exit. He quickly placed a phone call, yelling over the din of breaking glass and angry protestors who were spilling into the lobby, and after a few minutes, he slipped out the back door and was speeding away in a vehicle towards the U.S. embassy.

**####################**

Doggett paced outside of Angela's office as she examined the GPS chip in an attempt to retrace its path back to its original owner. She was working quickly despite her agitated state. She was sick with worry, and Doggett knew that she was more than a little angry with him. Still, she had been civil, and he knew that if anyone could tie the GPS chip to Jacob and his group, it was Angela.

Doggett called Caroline once again to update her on their progress. After receiving his third tongue-lashing regarding Brennan's abduction from the feisty prosecutor, she assured him that, as soon as Angela called her with hard evidence, the warrant would be issued. They were all on standby for the time being.

Doggett hung up and headed up the stairs to the lounge, where Cam and Hodgins were waiting, both terribly frustrated at the lack of help they were able to offer. They both looked up at him hopefully as he neared the couches, and he shook his head in response.

He sat down on the couch across from them, arms resting on his knees, head bowed.

"I'm…I'm so sorry, guys. This is all my fault. I should have known better than to let her out of my sight…"

"John, stop." He raised his head to meet Cam's determined gaze. "We all thought that there would be some warning before they took her. They said she'd be notified when it was time."

"Yeah, that's what bothers me about this. Makes me think that they found out who she is. The fact that they knew where she lives is especially troubling."

"You said there was a letter from Jacob?" Hodgins asked.

"It was all fluff. Just said how he looked forward to her being his wife, blah, blah, blah. Probably just a ruse to get the tracker into her hands."

Hodgins grimaced. "This guy is a real piece of work. But hey, Dr. B is tough. She kicked the Gravedigger's ass, so I'm sure she'll find a way to use that genius brain of hers to outsmart this psycho."

They all sat in silence for a few minutes, until Hodgins spoke up again. "So…has anybody called Booth?"

Cam nodded. "I did. He probably doesn't deserve a call, but I figured he'd want to know. Didn't get through, though."

Just then, Angela's head appeared at the top of the stairs. "Got it. I just called Caroline."

They all rushed down to her office to view the GPS path on her screen.

"This is called a Trackstick," she said, holding up the now-modified device. "Jacob's people removed the outer casing to make it less conspicuous, but I was able to solder it into a usb flash drive and pull the data off. I did some creative hacking to get into the account associated with the serial number on the chip. It's registered to Matthew Taylor – Jacob's real name – and the GPS path originates at the house in Cheverly."

They watched in dismay as the computer recreated the route that the tracker had taken on its last logged trip, beginning with the Handmaidens' house, stopping at the restaurant where Brennan had met Ashley, and ending at Brennan's building.

Angela continued, "These things are available on the internet; most people use them to keep an eye on their teenage drivers because you can log in and see real-time data on Google maps reflecting direction, speed, and location."

"Why didn't they just take her at the restaurant? Or why didn't they just follow her home? Why go through all the trouble of using a tracker?" Hodgins asked.

Doggett's brow furrowed as he considered scenarios. "Because they were planning on tracking her for a while before they took her. Problem is, she stopped at the FBI as soon as she left the restaurant. Whoever was watching the GPS must have panicked. She's been made."

**###################**

The fleet of FBI vans and SUVs screeched to a halt in front of the brick home in Cheverly, and Doggett was the first out of his car. In perfect unison, all vehicle doors flew open, and SWAT members poured out like water onto the front lawn. Doggett directed them in groups of four to various points along the perimeter of the house, and then put on his flak jacket in preparation for the raid.

The battering ram was in motion before he was even up the sidewalk, and as he reached the team at the front door, he heard the splintering of wood and a loud _pop! _as flash grenades were shot into the house.

"Go! Go!" Gun drawn, he moved in tandem with them as they swept the house, methodically checking room by room for inhabitants.

"Clear!" came the call from the living room. The team swept the dining room and kitchen. "Clear!" Doggett's adrenaline was on overdrive, desperate to find Brennan. "Clear!" came the call from the back of the house where the bedrooms were located.

They approached the stairs leading down to a room that appeared to be built into the ground – the room Brennan had described the night she had visited. Doggett led the way, unable to see through the thick smoke that had filled the house from their grenades. Flashlights cut through pitch darkness and danced on the walls of the stairwell as the team followed him down to the windowless room.

Doggett approached the landing and was immediately greeted by the eerie silence that hung heavy in the room. He swept his flashlight in front of him, unable to see through the smoke, and suddenly caught the glimpse of a figure lying on the floor several yards in front of him.

"Get some light down here!" He rushed ahead, nearly tripping over another person who was lying on the floor directly in front of him.

One of his agents located the light switch, and suddenly the room was bathed in fluorescent light. Doggett and the team fell silent at the horrific scene that lay before them.

Twenty women lay on the floor side by side, four to a row. Each was barefoot, was dressed in a white tunic, and had flowers in her hair. Each lay with her hands crossed on the chest in repose, a white handkerchief covering the face. None appeared to be breathing.

Doggett shook off the paralyzing shock and dropped to his knees next to the woman closest to him. He resisted the urge to yank the kerchief off of her face; they had to do this methodically, and it was killing him.

"Deceased. You two," he said to the nearest agents, "help me check them. Now!"

They began systematically checking for pulse and respiration, careful not to disturb evidence. Doggett's heart was in his throat. Each woman he checked was dead. So far, none of them appeared to be Temperance Brennan.

Doggett stood and watched as the two other agents finished their examination of the bodies. They stood slowly, their faces dark. Doggett nodded and, making his way over body after body towards the stairs, said to the SWAT leader, "Call it in. We'll need the county coroner, but no one touches anything until Dr. Saroyan arrives. Got it?"

He headed back up the stairs, where another agent met him. "Agent Doggett, we found a survivor." The agent motioned, and Doggett followed him towards the living quarters of the house.

"Do you know who it is?"

"No, but it's not Dr. Brennan," he said, stopping at a bedroom on the right. "She's in here." Doggett followed the agent inside to find one of the girls Brennan had met at the coffeehouse lying on the bed, and one of the agents administering oxygen from an O2 bag.

"We found her in the closet. She was still conscious when we found her, but she's going down quick. We've called for an ambulance. Her pulse is thready, and she's stopped breathing a few times. Looks like poisoning. We found potassium cyanide in the kitchen."

Doggett nodded as he turned to leave the room. "Keep an eye on her. We have to keep her alive. She may be the only one who can tell us where Brennan is."

**###############**

Brennan neared the edge of consciousness, her head pounding and every muscle in her body in agony. She was aware of very little; only incredible thirst, darkness, a cold floor under her body, and the inability to move even a finger. She attempted to speak, but her body could not find the strength to utter a sound. Attempting to jump-start her brain, she hazily tried to recall the events of the past few days, but her mind would not form the pictures. Then, the fog that shrouded her mind closed back in, and she surrendered to the remote confines of the drug-induced twilight sleep once again.


	15. Chapter 15

Chapter 15

Doggett met Cam on the curb as she pulled up in front of the Cheverly house. "It's gonna be a long night," he noted grimly as she pulled her crime scene kit from the trunk joined him on the sidewalk. He took the heavy case for her, and she followed him up the path towards the house.

"So, they're all dead? All of the Handmaidens?"

"Yeah, except for one. Hilary Fisher." He held open the front door for Cam and then followed her inside the house. "Found her upstairs. We think she was trying to hide, and bruising on her wrists and face indicate a struggle of some sort. She was poisoned, too, and we're not sure why she's still alive."

Cam stopped in the entryway. "Typical Jonestown-type scene? Poisoned at their own hand?"

"Yeah." Doggett's face was dark. "They literally drank the Kool-Aid. Looks like they had some sort of ceremony and everything. Sick bastard."

Cam nodded and looked around at the swarm of activity in the house. The SWAT team had cleared out, leaving only crime scene investigators, who were in various stages of evidence collection. "I guess I'd better get started. County is on the way to assist. I'd like to get a good head start on things before they get here."

Doggett pointed her down the stairs, and as she disappeared into the cavernous death-room, a young female agent approached.

"Agent Doggett, we found something out back."

Doggett followed her through the master bedroom and out the French doors that led onto a small deck. She pointed down the hill to the back edge of the yard, where agents were huddled just past the tree line, working to uncover something buried in the ground.

"What is it, a storm cellar?" Doggett was already down the stairs and headed towards the scene.

"Looks that way. It was obstructed by a lot of foliage. It's right on the property line, and there's a pretty large wooded area behind it. It was recently used, but someone took the time to lock it with a padlock and cover it with dirt and brush."

Doggett reached the cellar door just as an agent with a hacksaw finished off the lock and pulled it free. Several agents covered him with guns drawn as he helped pull the hatchway doors open, revealing a set of stairs leading down into a dark passageway. Doggett reached for his gun and flashlight, nodded to the group, and led the way down the stairs.

As he reached the bottom of the stairs, he was overcome by the stench of mold, vermin droppings, and urine. The passage was cold and damp, its crude walls dripping with groundwater from above, the earthen floor spongy beneath his feet. The corridor continued a few yards further, then opened into a fairly large room. Doggett swept his light throughout, gun at the ready, until his beam came to rest on an empty cot in the corner.

"Are there lights in here?"

Another agent located a bare bulb hanging from the ceiling nearby, and pulled the chain, illuminating the area with its harsh light. The room was the size of an average garage, with a cement floor, cinderblock walls, and crude, cedar posts intermittently spaced throughout to support the ceiling. Along the wall nearest the entrance was an empty workbench, and the cot and a prison-style toilet were positioned across the room on the opposite wall. A third wall, which faced the direction of the house, contained a metal door with no knob or handle.

Doggett holstered his gun and moved to the cot, noticing a length of rope on the floor at its foot.

"We need to bag this. Someone was being held down here." He shone his flashlight along the surface of the sheet, and, discovering two long, brown hairs near the pillow, called an agent over to collect the evidence.

Another agent spoke up from across the room. "More rope over here. And blood on the floor."

Doggett felt sick as he considered the possibility that Brennan may have been down here. He addressed the team, his voice choked with fear: "Folks, I know I don't need to remind you of the urgency of the situation here. I need you to scour this place for leads, and then scour it again. We're looking for biological evidence, but we also need to be on the lookout for any evidence of bomb-making materials, weapons, etcetera. The second one of you finds something of interest, I want to know about it. One of our own is still missing. Get to work."

**###################**

Booth sat in a private room within the confines of the U.S. Embassy, desperately trying to get a call through to Cam. He had slept fitfully through the night, waking every hour or so to try his phone for a signal. The rebels had taken out several cell towers in the area, and he cursed now as he waited in helpless fear with no contact from the outside world.

Finley, his superior agent, had finally arranged a meeting with the imprisoned informant, and Booth was waiting to be transported to the jail on the outskirts of Sana'a. The car was scheduled to pick him up within the hour, but he knew that, with the insurgency continuing its advance on the city, travel would be slow going.

He dialed Cam's number again, holding his breath through the forever-long pause as the phone searched for a signal. Once more, the fast busy signal sounded in his ear, and he slammed his fist down onto the desk. "Damn it!"

His exclamation resounded through the guest wing of the Embassy, and Agent Finley's head immediately appeared in the doorway.

"Something wrong, Agent Booth?" His shock of red hair was out of control today, and Booth thought the tall, scrawny agent looked more like the nerdy kid brother of Conan O'Brien than a high-up operative for the U.S. government.

"Just pissed that I can't get a cell signal. I need to call home. Is there a landline here I can use?"

Finley shook his head. "The land lines are down, and the sat phones are for emergency use only."

"Yeah, okay. Don't worry about it." Booth felt silly. Cam had only called once and hadn't left a message. For all he knew, she might have misdialed, and he was getting all worked up over nothing. Stupid nightmares. He had to stop freaking out about Bones.

"You alright, Agent Booth?" Finley's lean frame filled the doorway. He looked genuinely concerned. "You look like hell."

"Didn't sleep much last night. I'll be fine. I think I'm just stir crazy."

"Well, we're probably going to be moving you again. They're shutting down the embassy later today. Al Qaeda has threatened attacks on the U.S. and British embassies here, presumably to take advantage of the confusion around here lately. They'll be sending everyone home this afternoon. You're going to go to the prison, get your intel, and get out."

It dawned on Booth that, after this assignment, he'd be free to go home. His mission had necessitated an early end to his training, and the idea of sleeping in his own bed and hanging out with Parker excited him tremendously. And, he decided, he'd be checking in on Bones, just to set his mind at ease. Surreptitiously, of course.

**##################**

It was after midnight when the last body was taken away to the morgue, and Doggett and Cam stood together in the living room as the crime scene unit wrapped up their investigation. It had been determined that the girls had died less than an hour before Doggett and the team raided the house, and an agent found a tunnel leading from the large downstairs room to the cellar in the backyard, which was presumably how Jacob made his escape. Dogs had been sent into the woods behind the house, but the trail went cold almost immediately, and upon further inspection, tire tracks along the back of the property indicated that a van or SUV had been used as a means of escape.

"Agent Doggett?" Doggett and Cam turned to see the young female agent who had discovered the cellar approaching them from the kitchen. "I just wanted to give you a final report on our findings here. My guys are still down in the cellar finishing up, but we've not found anything indicating that this was any sort of militia group or terror cell. The only thing we found related to the Supreme Court protest was a bunch of picket signs, some fake blood, models of a fetus, and brochures."

"What about the bedrooms? Anything in there?" Doggett's face showed fatigue and frustration.

"Nothing. Same. Not even as much as a receipt for anything suspicious… well, except for the cyanide. That was purchased online. We found the bill of sale in Jacob's desk in his bedroom."

"Anything else? Laptops? Cell phones?"

The agent shook her head. "Neither. I seriously doubt the cult leader would allow the girls to have phones. Too much communication with the outside world."

Cam spoke up: "How did these young women arrive at this point? They look like normal, twenty-something women. How does one become brainwashed into dying for someone like this?" Her voice caught as she thought of her own daughter. "And how do we tell all these families what has happened here?"

Doggett's face looked like flint. "I don't know, but I do know this: words can't describe the hell that bastard is going to pay when we find him."

**##################**

Blinding white light assaulted Brennan's vision, making the pounding in her head intolerable, and she rolled painfully onto her side on the cold cement floor and covered her face with her arm. Every muscle in her body felt atrophied, as if she had not moved in days.

"Look who's awake," came a syrupy voice from somewhere else in the room. She could neither place who was speaking to her, nor how she knew him. Confusion clouded her mind, and she felt panic rise within her as she desperately searched for any memory at all of how she came to be here. She made a weak attempt to push herself up to a sitting position, but found that she barely had the strength to raise herself more than a few centimeters.

"You won't be able to sit up," the man intoned.

Brennan slowly rolled onto her back and let her head drop to the side, facing the man. Her mind, functioning as if in sludge, only formed thoughts in the form of single words.

_How? _

"Don't worry, it will wear off eventually. It's pretty potent stuff." He was someone familiar, but she could not place him. His eyes were a piercing emerald, but he was otherwise fairly nondescript in appearance. He was dressed casually, his black crewneck sweater making his eyes all the more striking. "It's called Burundanga. I picked it up in Colombia. As an anthropologist, you should be quite familiar with it, Dr. Brennan."

Brennan blinked, forcing back the fear. The drug was wearing off quickly, and she was beginning to feel more lucid as the minutes passed. As feeling returned to her appendages, she began to try to move, to wake her body from its comatose state.

The man continued. "You're quite the fighter, so I didn't have a choice. At any rate, it made you quite…compliant. That is, until I overdosed you. I am very sorry about that. You may feel nauseous as it wears off."

Brennan closed her eyes, again searching her brain for some memory of the recent past. Finally finding her voice, she whispered weakly, "Who…are you?"

He looked disappointed. "You really don't remember? My name is Jacob. I was going to take you as my Bride; that is, until you betrayed me. I found out that you were lying to me, that your name isn't Joy, that you had no interest in our cause. I found out that you are a liar!" His voice caught, and tears filled his eyes. "Because of you, all of my beautiful Handmaidens are gone from this earth. They paid the ultimate sacrifice to save me."

Her brain began to process these bits of information more quickly now, and in her mind, she caught occasional glimpses of faces and memories. A brick house on a tree-lined street. Agent Doggett. Burned bodies. Her heart rate increased as she began to comprehend the chain of events she had been part of.

"You remember now, don't you?"

"Why…am I here?" Brennan was afraid to give voice to the real question: why was she alive if the others were dead?

"Because, in spite of your hard-heartedness, you are the Bride that God has chosen for me. I must fulfill God's plan for your cleansing, and then you will be given over to another. You will redeem yourself unto God by carrying out a greater purpose."

She looked at him with all the hatred she could muster, then turned away.

"Enough talking, lamb." He stood and opened the steel door, his look repulsing her. "You are tired. You must sleep now. You will join your sister - my other Bride – and me for dinner in a while. Until then, love." He left the room, and the door closed behind him with a soft click, followed by the sound of a heavy lock engaging.


	16. Chapter 16

Chapter 16

Booth leaned back in his seat as the USAF C-21A Learjet reached cruising altitude. His mission had been successful, the Yemeni prisoner having been more than forthcoming with information on Yasir al-Qadhi, and now the CIA was flying him back to D.C. to help coordinate an operation to take down al-Qadhi and his operation. Time was of the essence as chatter that indicated an impending attack had increased over the past several days, presumably due to the recent up tick in violence in the Middle East.

Gazing out the window, Booth smiled at the irony that he was now traveling in a private jet with the privileges of a diplomat. Working with the CIA had its perks; no more coach class for him. If only Bones could see him…

_Bones._ God, he missed her. Time away had tempered his anger, and he had gained some perspective on where he had left things. His downward spiral had been reckless and immature, and he shifted uncomfortably in his seat in shame over his drinking and lecherous activity. He reasoned that his behavior was the culmination of six years of frustration and heartache, the longing for what he could never have: the emotionally unavailable woman he so desperately loved.

He could not allow her rejection of him to be a destructive force in his life any longer. It was better this way, he figured - better for both of them, really. If that night at the Founding Fathers was any indication, he and Bones were headed right down the same path they always found themselves on, dancing around each other, testing the laws of attraction, Booth desperate to love her, Bones too afraid to let him. It could not be. They had, once again, reached a stalemate, and Booth had to be the one to break it. And, yet again, he was the one who lost as a result.

Tears sprung to his eyes as he thought ahead to life back home without her. He had not considered how he would handle himself if he happened to run into her somewhere. The fact that Parker still talked to her somewhat regularly was troublesome. He would never deny his son that relationship, but he would rather not be connected with her in any way. In many ways, this was like a divorce, and he was feeling every bit of the damage it was causing.

So that was that. He had to let it go. He would allow himself to check in on her, just for the assurance that she was okay, but then he had to do what was best – for himself, for her, and for their jobs. It was only right.

**####################**

Doggett and Angela sat in the Emergency Room waiting area at Prince George's Hospital Center, biding their time until a doctor appeared with information on Hilary Fisher's condition. Angela had begged to assist Doggett, citing the need for a detailed sketch of other accomplices Hilary may have seen, but more than that, Doggett knew that she wanted to do anything she could to assist in the search for Brennan. She had been devastated by the news of the mass suicide, and was beside herself with worry over her best friend. Doggett knew that the waiting was killing her – she wanted nothing more than to rush in to Hilary's room, shake her awake, and demand answers. He wanted to do the same.

He stood and stretched, weary from no sleep, then walked to the window and gazed out at the brilliant early morning sunshine. "How you holding up?"

Angela shook her head. "Not so good. Brennan is constantly putting herself in dangerous situations, and I guess I'm used to that. But this is different. This time, there's no trail. It scares the shit out of me, you know?"

Doggett dipped his head. "There's always a trail, Angela. That's why we're here. We've just gotta believe that Hilary knows something, and that she's going to wake up soon and tell us what we need to know to find her. We _will_ find her, Angela."

"I hope so, Agent Doggett." Angela's voice betrayed her tears now. "I just…I guess I've just always had this lurking fear in the back of my mind that someday I'm going to get a call, and then she'll be gone forever…."

"Hey, listen," Doggett said, sitting on the chair next to her. "You can't think like that. She's a strong woman. I heard the Gravedigger got her, and she made it out alive. That's saying something, right?"

"Yeah, but then she had Booth…" Her words were overtaken by sobs, and her whole body shook as she let them out.

Doggett sat in silence, hearing her unspoken indictment. He should have done a better job at keeping track of her. She was his responsibility, and he had failed her.

After a few seconds, he spoke up: "But the good thing is that she wasn't at the house with the others. That means that Jacob had a reason to take her with him when he escaped. While it's unpleasant to think about, the fact that he was so smitten with her works to our advantage."

Angela wrinkled her nose through her tears. "Ew. That man is beyond creepy. I hope Brennan works her Judo magic on his family jewels if he tries anything."

An E.R. doctor appeared in the doorway, the lines in his face reflecting the exhaustion Doggett was feeling. "Agent Doggett?"

Doggett stood. "Tell me you have good news."

"Well, she's stable. We pumped her stomach and have administered Cyanokit, which will prevent the cyanide from further poisoning her system. She's beginning to wake up, but I'd advise you to keep any questions you have for her to a minimum. She's pretty weak."

He led them through the ward to a curtained-off bed towards the back. Holding the curtain open for them, he addressed Hilary softly.

"Hilary, are you up for answering some questions? The police are here."

Her blue eyes were wide with fear as she looked back and forth between Doggett and Angela. Angela immediately sensed her stress, and went to her side as the doctor slipped out.

"Hey," she said, smiling kindly at the girl. "I know you've been through a lot, and I know that you lost a lot of your friends today."

Hilary's eyes filled with tears at the memory of the horror she had witnessed. Angela continued, taking her hand. "Here's the thing, sweetie. My best friend was there, too, but we can't find her. We think Jacob took her. Can you please help us?"

Hilary nodded, and Angela sat close to Hilary. She could hear Hilary's tears hitting the pillow with a soft _thud._

"Okay. So can you tell me what happened last night?"

Hilary eyes were distant as her mind revisited the events that took place in the house.

"Um, well, we were all about to eat dinner," she began, her voice barely above a whisper, "and Jacob came in…he was…he was freaking out." She began to cough, and Angela and Doggett waited patiently as she regained her composure.

Angela handed her a cup of water. "Was he prone to 'freak out' over things?"

Hilary shook her head and coughed once more. "No," she whispered. "He was always very…calm." She cleared her throat. "So he told us to go downstairs, that it was time for our heavenly…reward. Everyone got excited, but I was…scared…just kept thinking about my mom…so I hid."

"Did Jacob know you were missing?" Doggett queried, still standing at the curtain.

Hilary shook her head. "I…hid in the closet. After – after the ceremony, he found me when he went to get something out of his office, and he held me down and forced a pill into my mouth."

"Did you hear what was going on downstairs? Did you know what he meant when he said that it was time for your 'reward'?"

"We all knew what it meant," she said, her voice showing signs of returning strength. "I felt bad for being so weak when the rest of my sisters were so brave. But my mom…." She began to weep. "I really need my mom…"

Angela took her hand in her own and stroked it gently. "Sweetie, I think they've already called her. She's probably on her way. But can you tell us…" she reached with one hand into her purse, withdrew a photo of Brennan, and showed it to Hilary. "Did you see this woman at the house this weekend?"

Hilary nodded. "Joy. Yes. Jacob brought her in to us on Saturday morning. She was all dressed in white, and he had her, like, sedated or something. He wanted us to meet his new Bride."

Doggett glanced at Angela, who looked ashen. "Any idea what happened to her? Was she part of the ceremony last night?"

"Um, I don't think so." She paused, interrupted by a yawn. "He has a lot of followers in South America. He always said he'd move us there someday. He probably took Joy and the other girl – Katie – there with him."

"Where in South America?"

"I don't know…."

Her voice trailed off, and Angela, noticing her drooping eyelids, squeezed her hand. "Sweetie, you're doing great. Can I just ask you one more thing?" Hilary nodded her assent wearily. "Would Jacob…hurt his Brides? We know about the previous ones…how they…ended up. Do you think he'll do the same to Joy and Katie?" It pained Angela to even voice the possibility, but she had to have some reassurance, even if it was speculative.

Hilary shook her head weakly. "No, he didn't hurt the other three. They punished themselves. He was upset about losing them. His Brides mean the world to him. He will take good care of Joy and Katie." She closed her eyes, and Angela stood and looked at Doggett.

"Hilary," he said softly, "You get some rest. Is it okay if we come back again tomorrow?"

"Sure," she whispered, and almost immediately fell asleep.

Doggett and Angela showed themselves out, parting ways at the hospital entrance. Angela watched Doggett briefly as he made his way across the parking lot, praying silently to whomever was listening that he'd find a lead on Brennan quickly.

**#################**

A few hours later, Angela pulled up to Brennan's apartment building and parked on the curb, the lump already forming in her throat. She felt guilty for skipping lunch to come here, knowing that the baby that was growing so rapidly inside her needed the nutrition, but she was sick with worry over Brennan, and the thought of eating made her want to vomit. She just needed to be surrounded by her friend's things, and while she knew it was silly to be here, she had driven here automatically as soon as the thought entered her mind.

She used her key that Brennan had given her so many years ago to let herself in. She was barely inside when a sob escaped her, and she dropped to her knees on the rich, soft Peruvian rug with which Brennan had adorned her entryway, letting the tears flow freely.

Angela breathed in, trying to calm herself. Brennan's apartment smelled like her – like books, curry, incense; it reminded Angela of culture, travel, a life well-lived, and it made her ache. This was not fair. Brennan did not deserve all of this heartache – all of this trauma.

She sat there on the rug for what seemed like hours, feeling close to her friend, yet overwhelmed at the emptiness that echoed through the apartment.

"Oh, Bren," she whispered, "Where _are_ you?"

**################**

Brennan woke with a start, and immediately cursed at herself for falling asleep. She had no idea how long it had been since Jacob had left her alone. For that matter, she thought smugly, there was no way of knowing how long it had been since Jacob had taken her, having been drugged for most of her captivity thus far. She resisted the attempt to try and figure it out, having found that to be futile in situations past.

Testing her body tentatively, she slowly pushed herself to an upright position and winced as her head throbbed in protest. A wave of nausea flooded her system, and she closed her eyes and breathed through it until it passed.

Feeling stronger after a few seconds, and she opened her eyes and took in her surroundings for the first time. She was in a basement or storage room of some sort, its cement floor and walls austere and utilitarian. A heavy-looking metal door punctuated the wall across from where she sat, her only connection to the world outside.

She stood carefully, her legs wobbly, and, for the first time, noticed her clothing – she was wearing a plain white dress, her feet bare, and a simple ring on her left hand. She shuddered at the realization that Jacob had undressed her while she was unconscious, and then fought of another wave of nausea at the thought of what other liberties he might have been taken with her body.

The scraping of a key in the lock interrupted her thoughts, and the metal door swung open, revealing a pallid Katie Lopez standing in its frame. Behind her, Jacob stood smiling calmly, and he gently nudged her into the room. Once she was within the confines of the cell, he pulled the door shut, leaving Katie and Brennan to stare blankly at each other.

Suddenly, Katie collapsed to the floor, and Brennan rushed to her side in a vain attempt to catch her before she hit the cold cement. Katie hit the ground on all fours, her hands registering a loud _smack_, and Brennan dropped to the cement beside her. She gently helped her lie down, easing her head into her lap.

Katie's eyes fluttered briefly, then snapped open in fear, wild and unseeing, and she began gulping air and convulsing as a panic attack set in.

"Katie," Brennan soothed, stroking her hair. "Shhhh…. Katie, it's okay. You're okay."

Katie's continued gasping for breath. "Katie, look at my eyes." Brennan's voice was firm but gentle, and Katie obeyed, and their eyes locked.

"Now, breathe with me, okay?" Brennan inhaled slowly, and Katie gasped a few more times, then forced herself to slow down and fall into Brennan's breathing pattern. After a few minutes, she was breathing normally, though still deathly pale.

"Th-thank you," she said to Brennan, tears streaming down her face. Brennan helped her sit up, and she looked at Brennan with confusion. "Aren't you – aren't you the FBI lady?"

"Yes. I was undercover and Jacob took me. Did he hurt you?"

Katie wiped her tears with the sleeve of the dress she was wearing, which was identical to Brennan's. "Not – exactly. But he told me that tonight was the night we were going to be married! I don't want to be drugged again! I'm scared of what he's going to do to me! Where are we? What day is this? How long have we been here?"

Brennan looked away, feeling nauseous again. "I don't know, Katie. I think we've been through the same thing. Have you been drugged until now?"

"Yes. It's been awful. Sometimes I wake up and I know I've been drugged - I can't move, but I can see what's going on around me. Other times, it's felt like I've been asleep for days. I don't know what he's doing to me when I'm asleep, and it scares me…"

Brennan nodded. "I believe he's dosed us with a powerful drug called Scopolamine. We can't let him drug us again. If we can stay together, I think we can take him. Are you strong enough to fight?"

**###############**

Booth unlocked his front door and entered his apartment, dropping his luggage in the entryway. It had been nearly six weeks since he'd been home, and while he should have been grateful for the sanctuary it offered, he felt unsettled.

A thought had struck him during the cab ride home from the airport, and now it nagged at him. He wanted to see her. He told himself that he just needed to check on her, to assuage his irrational fears about her safety that had haunted him for the past month or so, but more than that, he needed to give her the courtesy of an explanation. She deserved to know where he stood regarding their friendship and partnership, and he needed to make a clean break so that they both could move on with their lives. It was only fair.

His palms began to sweat at the thought of seeing her again, but he knew that this needed to be done, so he snatched his keys and stepped back out into the hallway, slamming his door behind him, and made his way to her apartment.

His heart beat faster the closer he got to her building, and by the time he pulled into the back parking lot, he was sick with adrenaline. He wanted to run, but he forced himself out of the car, determined to man up and handle this once and for all. He noticed her car in the back of the lot, and thought it strange that it looked like it hadn't been driven in several days. Maybe she was sick. Or maybe she was out of town. Once more he felt the urge to forget the whole thing, go home, and have a beer.

_Get your ass inside, Seeley._ He obeyed his inner voice, promising himself a stop by the bar on the way home, a little reward for seeing this through.

He climbed the stairs with shaking knees, walked down the long hallway toward her apartment, and stopped cold. Her door was ajar, and he could clearly hear someone inside crying.

_Damn. _

Taking a few stealthy steps backward, he flattened himself against the wall next to her door and swallowed. What the hell was he going to do? She was in there bawling her eyes out, and there was no way he could just waltz in there and strike up a conversation after disappearing from her life for so long. On the other hand, he realized suddenly, the sound of her weeping was breaking his heart. If he was the cause of what he was hearing now…

Suddenly, the door across the hall opened, and a middle-aged woman stepped out into the hall. "Oh, hello, Mr. Booth!" she greeted loudly. "How nice to see you again! If you're here to see Temperance, she's not here…"

She stopped mid-sentence, and Booth saw her eyes shift past him, her face registering confusion. Booth turned, not expecting to see Angela standing in Brennan's doorway, hands on her hips, and eyes ablaze with fury. Before he knew what was happening, her hand flew to Booth's cheek with the force of a bullwhip, and Booth recoiled, his face on fire.

"Seeley Joseph Booth! What the HELL are you doing here?"

He touched his cheek and looked at her doggedly.

"Get the fuck inside this apartment right now," she spat through her teeth, and she yanked his arm violently, pulling him into the apartment. The last thing Booth saw before the door slammed behind him was the neighbor woman, frozen in her spot in the hallway, mouth agape.

Angela whipped around to face him. "Do you have any idea what's been going on here since you decided to become an asshole and run away?" Her voice was low and intense, the tone chilling Booth to the bone. He'd seen Angela angry before, but this was different. She was unhinged. Booth stood taciturn, confused and shocked.

"Well?" she challenged. "What the hell, Booth? What do you have to say for yourself? You ditched us, ran away to who the hell knows where, cut Bren off without any explanation, quit the FBI… you just left her, Booth. You know what that does to her when people leave. And now – and now she's gone, and you won't even answer your phone! I blame _you_!" Angela rushed at him, shoving him in the chest with all the force she could muster. "This is all _your_ fault! She could be dead, and – and it's your fault…." She collapsed into him, sobbing, knocking him off balance. He grabbed hold of her shoulders to steady himself and pushed her away gently, his eyes wide as he realized what she was saying.

"Angela - what?"

"She's gone, Booth," Angela's fury was spent, and her look reminded him of a frightened child. "She was taken by that psycho cult leader. She's been missing since Friday."

Booth's stomach was in his shoes. He staggered backwards and dropped to the couch in disbelief. "Oh my god," he whispered, running his hand through his hair, face pale. He felt like he was going to be sick. "How – why?"

Angela sat down across from him and looked at the floor. "She was undercover. Jacob – that's his name – decided that she was supposed to be his bride or something, and he kidnapped her."

"Damn it! DAMN IT!" Booth slammed his hand down on Brennan's coffee table and stood abruptly. "I knew that asshole agent was going to get her in trouble! Screw him!"

Angela glared at him, the fire returning to her eyes. "No, screw _you_, Booth. Agent Doggett has been a better friend and partner to Bren than you have lately. It's not his fault – _he_ was doing his job, unlike _you_! He doesn't know her like you do – and therefore can't protect her like you were supposed to. But you – you were too much of a coward to stick around!"

Booth looked at her in disbelief. "This is _my_ fault? Angela, I am not responsible for Bones and her actions. I left because I had to – because I couldn't be around her anymore. She hurt me, Angela. She rejected me twice! I can't be her partner – her friend – anymore. I just can't do it. It's too messed up."

"Go to hell, Booth! I don't know who you are anymore! You have become a selfish douchebag, and, not only that, you are completely clueless." She stood and faced him, leaning into his personal space, eyes boring into his. "Let me spell it out for you, dumbass. Brennan is missing because you weren't here to protect her. And, for the record, she didn't 'reject you.' You kissed her – drunk, might I add - the very night your would-be fiancée dumped you. She was protecting herself - and you - from being hurt."

Booth was silent as he suddenly saw that night through Bones' eyes. He had been a such a jerk. _Oh, god, Bones… _He collapsed back into the couch and palmed his face.

Angela turned to see herself out, snatching up her purse on the way. She yanked open Brennan's front door, and then paused and turned to him again, her expression softer than before.

"Booth. Brennan loves you - she told me herself. So, wherever you've buried 'White Knight Booth,' it's time to find him, man up, and fix this. Find her, Booth."

With that, Hurricane Angela was gone, leaving Booth alone, surrounded by Bones' things. And for the first time since Afghanistan, he allowed the tears to fall, as the realization of the full weight of his actions began to dawn.

_I was going to hold off on the telling-off of Booth for a while, and debated whether or not to even go there, but it felt right. Besides, some of you rabid reviewers were getting anxious for your pound of Booth flesh! See? You review, I listen. _

_So keep 'em coming! My muse appreciates your words of encouragement! _


	17. Chapter 17

Chapter 17

Booth reclined wearily on Bones' couch, his emotional reserves tapped. Angela's tirade, coupled with the familiar surroundings of Bones' life, had acted as a sort of shock therapy, a jolt of much needed – albeit painful – reality. It had been so easy to convince himself that the alternate storyline he had been telling himself was real, so long as he was miles from home, sequestered from his life back here in D.C. Now that he was sitting in Bones' living room with Angela's words still ringing in his ears, he could not escape the truth.

He stood and wandered around Brennan's apartment, taking in the pieces of her life that were so familiar to him: the living room, where he'd sat up many a night sharing a beer with her after a case. The dining room table where they'd shared many a late-night Thai dinner, and once, a special meal of mac and cheese that she'd carefully prepared just for him. The shelf lined with a surprisingly diverse CD collection, including a Foreigner record that was particularly near and dear to his heart.

He wandered over to her desk and ran his hand along the back of her chair. He imagined her sitting here in the late night hours, tapping out a chapter in her latest novel, and he smiled as he recalled the numerous conversations in which she swore that her fictitious Agent Andy bore absolutely no resemblance to him. He'd always liked to think he knew better. He'd read each one of her books, having picked up the his first copy out of curiosity about the woman he had just begun working with, and he'd continued reading them as she wrote them, hungry for insight into her private thoughts. He was intrigued by her mind – it was at once analytical - the epitome of a left-brained thinker - and creative. She had a surprising knack for language and story, something that one did not usually associate with a scientific brain.

Lost in thought, his eyes swept across the surface of the desk and suddenly lit upon an envelope that was sticking out from between two anthropological journals. It appeared to be sealed, and he noticed her familiar scrawl on its surface. Pulling it out, his breath caught as he read his name on the face of the envelope.

She had written him? He held the letter in his hands for several minutes, unsure of what to do next. He felt as if he was invading her private world, and she would be mortified right now if she knew he was in her living room looking through her things. At the same time, it was a new communication from her, and he was desperate for some sort of connection with her.

With shaking fingers he ripped open the envelope and unfolded the note. He saw his name at the top in her handwriting, and his throat tightened as he noticed that the letter was dated three weeks prior, just after he'd left for training. He nervously ran a hand through his hair, unsure whether or not he really wanted to read what she had to say. Figuring that he deserved whatever she dished out, he settled into her chair and surrendered himself to her words.

_Booth,_

_It has been three weeks since our drinks together at the Founding Fathers, and I am unsure of how to communicate with you other than to write you a letter that you most certainly will never read. _

_I am not used to expressing what is in my "heart," as you say, but I feel the need to do so, to explain what it holds for you, and how it now feels as if it has broken into a million pieces over the last several months. This is my worst nightmare, my greatest fear realized, and I have no one with whom to speak regarding the pain I have felt since we met at the Reflecting Pool so many months ago._

_I love you, Seeley. I am terrified even as I write the words, and, considering the circumstances I find myself in of late, I am the one who should be running. But something has changed within me over the last year; I have undergone an evolutionary process that has fundamentally changed my core beliefs. I credit you for effecting that change. _

_When we first met, I was impenetrable – defiantly so – and while I felt an attraction between us, I dismissed it, because it was easier to do so than to admit that the type of idealistic love you believed in was real. You have shown me, over the years, that there is a higher love – one that transcends time and space and fear and hang-ups. You showed me that steady, unconditional love is real, because that is what you gave me._

_When you asked me to "gamble" on us that night outside of the Hoover, I panicked. I am not a gambler, and I never will be. It was not you I was rejecting, but the notion that I might not ever be able to be the type of woman you would want thirty, forty, or fifty years down the road. I was so afraid – afraid of messing things up, afraid of losing you – and I retreated behind my impenetrable walls to protect myself – and you – from being hurt._

_My time away in Maluku gave me much-needed perspective, and I came home resolute in the knowledge that I loved you and that you were worth the gamble. I was determined to live more openly, not only taking the time to get to know others, but also opening myself to being known. I was ready to tell you these things the night we met at the Reflecting Pool, but then you told me you had moved on, and I spent the next six months trying to un-love you, trying to be the best friend I could be, trying to support you because I wanted you to be happy._

_During the Eames case, I realized that my efforts were fruitless, and I opened myself to you that night in your car because I could not hold back any longer; I had no other choice. I am a scientist, and the facts before me were indisputable. We had both paid dearly for my self-protective hyper-rationalism, and the Eames case showed me that matters of the (metaphorical) heart are not rational, but empirical. _

_Booth, I know that I hurt you. I am often accused of running away from relationship, from hard things, out of self-preservation. I sense that you are now running from me – that you have been since you went to Afghanistan. I am to blame for this, I know, and I want nothing more than to express my sorrow over this knowledge. However, my actions three weeks ago in your apartment hallway were simply an attempt to keep us both from a grave mistake borne out of emotion, heartbreak, and whiskey. I wasn't saying, "no," just, "not yet." I would not have had the strength to do that if I hadn't gone through this process over the past year, but I now know that I love you enough to do whatever it takes to get it right._

_And maybe someday we will "get it right." Maybe our moment hasn't passed, after all. Maybe once your universe rights itself again, you will come back, having learned yourself the way I have me, and we can work on trying to be together, having been made better for our findings._

_Until then, I hope that you can find some peace, and that you are safe wherever you are in your path to discover your truth. Take care of yourself, Booth._

_Always, _

_Bones_

Booth slumped in the chair, utterly defeated. Her words were the final blow to his pride, a TKO that left him lifeless and begging for mercy. He was tapped out, and he desperately wished she were there so that he could take her in his arms and grovel for her forgiveness. He had no idea what he had put her through since they had parted ways a year ago. He thought she wanted it this way, but then again, he hadn't exactly been around to notice how she had changed or how she felt. He hadn't even considered it. And then he had picked up and left again, abandoning her a second time because he was too selfish and blind to see her heart.

It was time to right these wrongs. He snatched up his keys and tore out of her apartment, the door slamming in his wake.

**#################**

Doggett leaned back in his chair and ran his hands over his two-day-old scruff. He hadn't slept since Saturday, and as Monday evening bore down on him, the possibility of rest anytime soon seemed well out of reach. The trail had gone cold, but there was no way he could sleep until Brennan was found safe.

He flipped through the file for the hundredth time that day, hoping to find a detail they'd overlooked. The hair and blood traces from the cellar at the Handmaiden's house had proven to be Brennan's and someone else's – presumably Katie's. As the evidence was collected and processed from the house, a more complete picture of Jacob and his followers began to take shape, and Doggett realized that they were dealing with a fairly run-of-the-mill cult leader. On one hand, he was relieved to know that there were no ties to any terror organizations; on the other hand, a narcissistic cult leader with a penchant for collecting brides would be equally dangerous to those in his grasp, if not more. And, Doggett realized, a South America connection could mean any number of variables - human trafficking, drugs, sex slavery – and if Jacob were to leave the country with Brennan and Katie, they might never find them.

His thoughts were interrupted by a soft knock at the door. He stood and stretched, his back aching from his lack of rest, and he wearily walked to the door and pulled it open.

"Agent Doggett." Seeley Booth stood in his doorway, looking like Doggett felt – ragged, upset, and bested by the circumstances of late. "We need to talk."

Doggett frowned and stepped aside to let him in. "What can I do for you, Agent Booth?" He motioned towards the chair in front of his desk, and Booth complied.

Booth sat silently for several seconds, elbows resting on his knees, his head bowed. When he finally looked up, his eyes were rimmed with red. Doggett thought he looked like hell.

"First, an apology. I shouldn't have gotten in your face at the coffeehouse. I was out of line," Booth mumbled. He met Doggett's eyes, and Doggett nodded his acceptance. Booth paused and looked away, and Doggett could see the muscles in his jaw tighten. "I do still maintain my opinion on the matter, though."

Booth stood and looked around the dimly lit office that was decorated with military awards, medals, and pictures spanning Doggett's long career in law enforcement. "I've heard good things about you, John. Your reputation around here is almost legendary. I also know that you tend to work in a rather – unorthodox way. I don't know about how you worked with your previous partner, but Bones is… Bones is not an agent. She's a scientist. She should never have been put in harm's way. Bad call on your part, Agent Doggett."

Doggett's eyes narrowed as he attempted to comprehend Booth's angle. "Agent Booth, I'm not sure I'm understanding your purpose for coming here to talk. Are you here to apologize, or are you here to crucify me for doing my job – a job, I might add, that was yours before you chose to desert?"

Booth crossed to Doggett, jabbing his finger into Doggett's chest. "Don't even go there with me, Doggett," he said through his teeth. "It was your job to watch out for her! I warned about sending her in undercover! You should have stayed with her! She should never have been left alone!"

Doggett crossed his arms, uncowed by Booth's tone. "Agent Booth, I'd like to remind you that this would have been your case had you chosen to stick around. If you were so worried about her safety, why did you leave?"

His words had their intended effect on Booth, who deflated and backed off. "You're right," he admitted, walking to the window that overlooked the courtyard below. "You're right. This is my fault. She has a knack for getting into trouble. You couldn't have known that." His shoulders drooped in defeat.

Doggett's voice softened. "We sent her in because we had no other choice, Agent Booth. They followed her here on Friday night and found out who she was. I take responsibility for that, and I'm doing my damndest to find her."

Doggett's humility was disarming to Booth. "Yeah, I know," he mumbled. "I appreciate that. Thanks."

Doggett nodded. "So, why are you here, Agent Booth? I thought you were busy taking out terrorists."

"I want to help find her."

Doggett's mouth formed a tight line. "Look, I know you're worried. I got my best people on this, but you know I can't let you get involved – you're not FBI anymore."

"Yeah, but I'm CIA. John, I can't just sit around at home knowing that she's out there somewhere…." Booth realized he was begging, but he didn't care.

"And the longer we sit here and talk about it, the less time I'm spending tracking her down. Go home, Agent Booth. You look like shit. Get some rest. I'll call you the second I know something."

Booth nodded slightly and headed for the door, and as he did so, his eyes flashed briefly with an expression Doggett hadn't noticed until now. Sadness? Guilt? He empathized with the guy. He'd obviously been through hell, regardless of whether or not it was his doing.

"Agent Booth?"

Booth stopped in the doorway and turned, and Doggett saw him for what he was: a broken man. This was eating him alive.

"Look, Booth, for what it's worth…I can tell that she means a lot to you. I don't know what went down between you two, but she's still fiercely loyal to you, too. I'll find her – I'll get her back. And when I do, you better set things right with her. She's a good woman. She deserves an explanation for your actions."

**###########**

Brennan and Katie sat huddled against the wall of their cell, shivering against the damp cold that permeated the thin dresses they wore. It had been several hours since Jacob brought Katie in, and they spent the time plotting their escape. Katie had not seen much more of the building in which they were held, having been confined to a room under the influence Jacob's drugs for most of her stay. The only other part of their prison she had seen was the long corridor through which Jacob escorted her when he put the two women together.

They heard a soft scraping at the door, and they ceased their conversation, each holding her breath as the door opened. Jacob appeared, carrying a tray of food and wearing a smile.

"Hello, my lovelies. I thought you might want to eat. It's been several days – I figured you must be hungry."

He set the tray down at their feet. "Eat. I've got some plans for both of you tonight." He looked back and forth between the two appraisingly, and then knelt in front of Katie and caressed her cheek. "You, sweetness, will be first, I think."

Katie spat in his face, and he grabbed her by the front of her dress and stood, jerking her to her feet with him. Brennan leaped up, ready to charge, but in one motion he reached behind his back and produced a gun, and then pointed it at Katie's temple. Katie instantly began to cry.

"Listen to me," he said over Katie's ragged sobs. "Both of you are going to cooperate, or she dies. I'd very much like to keep both of you alive and unmarked – bruising and broken bones tend to drop the price tag, and my buyer will be quite unhappy with me if I bring him damaged goods. But I'll do what I have to do, so don't push it."

Brennan froze momentarily, listening to Katie's pleas for him to let her go. They were being sold? Brennan had not considered this scenario, but knew that it meant that they would likely disappear into a dark, obscure underworld in which they would never be found.

"Now," he continued. "The trip to Columbia is a long one, so I suggest that you both eat something. The container hold doesn't have very good meal service, I hear. May be a while before you get to eat again."

Katie's face was pale and her breath suddenly shallow, and Brennan could see the telltale signs that another panic attack was beginning to take hold of her.

Jacob noticed it too, and it seemed to annoy him.

Brennan seized on the opportunity to play up Katie's weaknesses. "Let her go. I'll go with you willingly if you promise not to touch her." Brennan's voice was steady, though she fought to keep her knees from giving out. Her adrenal system was in full fight-or-flight mode, and she did her best to ignore the urge to do both. "She's ill. If your buyer doesn't want damaged goods, he certainly wouldn't want someone with a nervous condition. Just leave her alone, and you can do with me what you want."

"Anything I want?" Jacob looked at her lustfully. "I may take you up on that. You're right, though. She's too weak – she'd never survive the trip to Columbia. I could probably fetch just as high a price for you as I would for both."

Brennan flashed a small smile of reassurance at Katie, who had quieted. Then, hoping to take his full attention off of Katie, she looked at Jacob seductively. "I can be most compliant – and I will be, if you let her go."

Jacob released his hold on Katie, who collapsed to the ground in relief. He smiled at Brennan. "I'll take you up on that, love. But I'm not going to let her go," he said, and raised his gun again. It fired with a deafening report, and Katie slumped forward, her white dress turning rapidly crimson as her lifeless body settled onto the cold cement floor.


	18. Chapter 18

_**A/N: This chapter gets a little rough, and contains some rather gritty material that borders on the mature side of things…be forewarned. **_

_**Thank you for all of your amazing reviews and kind words! I really do appreciate all of them! Sorry if I've been slow in responding – since the website's review system has been goofy, I've missed a couple of alerts along the way! I'm catching up, I promise! Keep those reviews coming! **_

_**Oh, and happy "Seven Uninterrupted Weeks of Bones" week!**_

Chapter 18

Booth rushed through the sliding doors of the Jeffersonian's Medico-Legal Lab and made his way towards the center of the room. About to climb the stairs to the platform, he froze in his steps when he realized that, upon his entrance, all activity had ceased and all eyes were on him. Hodgins and Wendell were staring at him from the platform rail, mouths agape, and Cam, who had been on her way to join them, stopped dead in her tracks when she rounded the corner from her office and spotted him.

"Seeley?" She was shocked to see him. "What the hell are you doing here? She's…she's not here."

Apparently Angela had not clued her coworkers in regarding her encounter with him at Brennan's apartment. Booth dipped his head. "Yeah, I know," he said softly. "I – I was hoping we could team up – you know, try to find her."

"We _are_ trying to find her. We've been working around the clock since she was taken. We don't really need your help, Seeley." Cam crossed her arms, and he knew all too well the defiant look in her eye.

"Camille, come on. Don't make me beg. Okay, I was an idiot. I acted like a total asshole. Seriously, I need to help. I need to find her…" His voice broke, and Cam softened when she saw the desperation and panic in his eyes. She sighed and went to him, putting her hand on his arm.

"Okay. But know that the team is pretty pissed at you right now. It may take them a while to warm up to you being here. It's been quite a long time since you graced us with your presence here."

Booth nodded, knowing that she was referring to more than just the past six weeks. His visits to the lab had been few and far between since he came back from Afghanistan. Since Hannah came into the picture.

"So…" he began tentatively. He wasn't used to the squints knowing more about a case than he, and it pained him to ask them to catch him up – especially on this one. "What have we got?"

Cam shook her head somberly. "Not much. For all practical purposes, this guy took Brennan and the other girl and disappeared into thin air. House was clean – no indicators of a hideout or connections to any other groups. No witnesses except for the one girl who made it out, but she didn't know much, either, except to say that he might be taking them to South America. It seems like this Jacob freak made his appearances often enough to keep the girls around, but kept himself pretty separate from them in daily life. Exalted status with minimal interaction; he was a like a legendary hero to them. They worshiped him, but really didn't know him."

Booth followed her up to the lounge, listening as she filled him in on the details of the case, beginning with the bodies found in the garages of the three girls' parents. When she had outlined the course of events and brought him to present, he was silent for a while, fingers drumming on the conference table, as he processed the information.

"So the TrackStick?" he asked.

"Registered to him, under his real name. Same address as the house we found them in."

"Any vehicles?"

"A van. Standard white cargo van. Also registered to his real name. We presume it's garaged somewhere. Angela's still pulling data off the traffic cameras from Sunday."

"Cell phones?"

"Still checking all the girls', but his was a throwaway. No incriminating calls."

_Damn it_, thought Booth. There had to be something. She had been missing since Friday. It was Monday evening, and so much time had been wasted because of his stupidity. If he had only been here…

"Cam!" Angela appeared at the top of the stairs, winded from running. Her eyes darted to Booth. "Oh, hey G-Man," she said, her eyes reproachful. "Finally decided to get on board with this whole 'finding Brennan' thing, huh?"

"Don't have time, Angela," admonished Cam. "What did you find?"

"Sorry. Okay. Traffic cam pictures show a van matching Jacob's, exiting I-270 North and headed towards Gaithersburg last evening, and then another cam shot with the same van _in_ Gaithersburg. My computer is working to piece together the license plate so we can verify a match. The original picture was pretty blurry, but I'm getting close."

Cam pulled out her phone. "Thanks, Angela. Let me know as soon as it's done." The phone began ringing in her hand before she had the chance to dial out. She looked at Booth as she answered. "It's Doggett. Yes?"

Booth watched as his normally unflappable friend paled, then swallowed hard. "Okay," she said into her phone weakly. "Yes. We will. We'll be waiting." She ended the call and then walked in a daze to the rail that overlooked the lab, leaning on it for support as she stared across the room, unseeing.

"Cam?" Booth went to her, feeling heartsick.

"Another charred body." Her voice was weak. "Found in Gaithersburg - in Katie Lopez's mother's garage."

**################**

Brennan awoke abruptly to the smell of ammonia under her nose. Disoriented, her mind raced to put the pieces together. She knew she had been moved, but she had no recollection whatsoever of the last several hours. The room in which she now laid felt like a sauna, the humidity and heat heavy, making it difficult to breathe, and she could feel the sweat pouring off of her. Her hair clung to her face, damp and stringy.

Jacob's piercing green eyes and leering smile suddenly filled her field of vision, and she immediately recoiled. "Hi," he whispered, his breath hot on her face.

She turned her head away from him and struggled to remove herself from his invading presence, but he pinned her shoulders to the floor and pressed a long, unwelcome kiss to her lips. She writhed, repulsed and angry at the violation, and he suddenly broke away, clamping her neck to the floor with his hand, squeezing the wind out of her as he smiled down at her. He was quite strong, and she found herself pitifully outmatched as she choked and coughed, flailing and gasping for breath. Her head began to throb and blackness filled the edges of her vision as she struggled for air.

Suddenly, he let go, and the pounding in her head abated as she rolled to her side on the dirt floor and gulped in lungful after lungful of air, sputtering and coughing as involuntary tears slid down her face.

He violently rolled her back to face him. "Don't fight me, lovely. I just want to have a little fun before you have to go."

He was crouched over her still, but she refused to look at him. He chuckled softly. "I really don't want to have to dope you up again. I thought you were going to be 'compliant.' I will say, though, my other Brides have been pretty passive. It may be a fun challenge…" He trailed off as he traced a finger down her cheek. He grinned again, then bent down and planted his mouth on her neck, his hand groping at her chest.

She gritted her teeth, gathering her strength, and, pushing herself away from him, she rolled to her side. She sprung to her feet, a wave of nausea nearly doubling her over. She was unsteady from the lingering effects of whatever he'd used to knock her out, but her martial arts training kicked in and she assumed a defensive stance. He leered at her, his green eyes flashing with equal amounts of irritation and lust, and then suddenly rushed towards her like a linebacker, tackling her and slamming her forcefully into the corner of the room a few feet behind her, the impact with the cinderblock wall knocking the wind from her.

His hands were all over her body at once, and she felt the nausea return as she felt his hand at the hem of her dress, forcing his way under the material as his sweaty hand groped at her buttocks, pulling her closer as he pinned the rest of her to the wall with his body. Angry tears slipped from her eyes, and her knees began to tremble as her adrenaline surged.

"NO!" she screamed, willing herself to remain lucid and rational as she felt the panic rising. She was hemmed in on all sides, and the old feelings of claustrophobia began to wash over her, threatening to drown her in its wake. With all the force she could muster, she brought a knee up and slammed it into his groin, and he cried out in pain, doubling over in front of her. She used his position to her advantage, and swiftly kicked him in the chest, sending him backwards to the floor and enabling her to extricate herself from the corner of the room.

She ran towards the wooden door on the opposite side of the room and yanked the handle towards her, nearly losing her balance as it flew inward, brilliant sunshine pouring in and blinding her momentarily. Jacob was on his feet within moments, and she had no more than crossed the threshold when he was upon her. He caught the back of her dress, threads ripping from their seams as he yanked her back, and in seconds, she found herself in a chokehold, his hot breath heaving into her ear.

"Bitch! You want it rough?"

He spun her around and threw her to the ground, his knee following and pinning her to the dirt floor as his kneecap dug sharply into her ribs. He returned a rough hand to her neck and squeezed, and with the other, fished a syringe out of his pocket, pulling the cap off of the needle with his teeth. She flailed under him, eyes wide as he plunged the needle into her neck. Within seconds the drug began to course through her system, and her body grew heavy as her senses began to dull.

He kept her pinned beneath him until he felt her muscles relax. When he was sure she could no longer fight, he sat back on his heels, panting.

"You're going to be _very_ compliant now, love." His words sounded distant and surreal. "Devil's Breath has a way of making people do things they'd normally never do. You'll be quite open to the power of suggestion." She felt thick and heavy, as if the very air around her was pressing her into the floor, and through unfocused eyes she could see his white teeth flashing a grin.

"_No_," she attempted, but the word refused to form, and she realized that she had only voiced it in her head. The blackness was filling more of her vision now, and she desperately tried to blink it away, feeling the room spin as she closed her eyes.

She felt his weight on her again as he sat on her legs and bent forwards to lock her lips in another repulsive osculation, but she was powerless to fight him. She was slipping away, only aware of fragments of what was going on around her: the slamming of a car door somewhere. Approaching footsteps. Someone yelling. The cold steel of Jacob's gun under her chin.

As the inky blackness closed in around her, the last thing that registered was the sound of a gunshot, followed by the dead weight of Jacob's body covering her own. And then, nothing.

**################**

Booth paced in Angela's office as she input data into her iPad. She was still attempting to piece together the license plate of the van from the traffic cameras on one machine, while the other was doing a grid search of all other public cameras in the Gaithersburg area to see if they could track Jacob's movements after he dumped Katie's body. It was tedious, and Booth was coming unglued.

"Can't you make this piece of crap move any faster?" He stopped his pacing and tapped on the theater-sized screen from which she was working.

She arched an eyebrow and gave him her "don't-even-start" look, and then returned her attention to the iPad that was controlling the data on the screen.

He let out an exasperated sigh and sat in her desk chair, his leg bouncing furiously as he watched her work.

"Okay," she said, turning to him. "Seriously? You are driving me crazy. I appreciate your impatience, but it's not helping me right now."

"Sorry," he muttered.

Their eyes met, and he saw pity in her expression. "Can't you, I don't know, call in some favor from the big-shots at the CIA?" she asked.

"Tried. They have bigger fish to fry right now. There's some pretty big chatter right now surrounding this Christians United For Israel rally that's supposed to happen next week, and they've got all hands on deck here locally. Besides, Jacob is small potatoes in their book. Not even on their radar."

They were silent for a while as Angela turned back to her work. Booth, finding himself unable to remain still, launched himself from her chair and wandered out into the hallway, his legs automatically carrying him to the office he knew as well as his own.

It was exactly as he remembered, although he could not, for the life of him, place when exactly he had last stood in this room. Her office was an extension of her life, and, like her apartment, held so many memories that his throat tightened as the memories washed over him. The late nights, the paperwork, the Thai food…

The mistletoe.

No. He was not going to do this. Not now. He refused to memorialize her while she was still out there somewhere, waiting to be rescued. He shook off the paralyzing sorrow and raced out of her workspace, and nearly crashing headlong into Doggett, who was on a mission to find Cam.

"Booth! You didn't take my advice about getting rest, I see?"

"You know I can't do that, John. You got something?"

Booth looked hopeful, and Doggett dreaded sharing the news he had come to break to the team. "Yeah," he said woefully. "Let's find Cam. We don't have much time."

Booth followed Doggett anxiously as he burst into Cam's office. Cam looked up from her computer abruptly, startled at the sudden intrusion.

"Body's on its way here," Doggett said. "We just got done at the scene, and the transport team is right behind me. You can autopsy it for evidence, but the mom identified the victim as Katie Lopez."

Cam nodded slowly. "But - you have something else, don't you?"

Doggett looked down at his feet. "Got a call on the way here. A plane was chartered from Dulles early this afternoon, headed for Columbia. The woman at the charter company said that a man matching Jacob's description was the one who bought the ticket. She had seen his picture on the news, but it didn't dawn on her until hours after takeoff who he was."

"Did she say anything about seeing Bren?" Angela was standing in the doorway, having walked in to hear the last bit of Doggett's news.

"No. She thought he was traveling alone. The flight was hours ago. We just got the call…"

Booth shot forward and grabbed Doggett's lapels, slamming him down onto the autopsy table. "Son of a bitch! Your people didn't think to check the fucking airports? I swear to God, Doggett, if something has happened to her…"

"Booth!" Cam was on him immediately, pulling him off of Doggett. "It's not his fault!"

Booth roughly released his hold on Doggett, who straightened and glared at Booth, his eyes steely.

"Agent Booth, I'm going to ask you one more time to let me do my job. If you want to help, you need to trust me and stay out of my way. If not, I'm going to have to put a call into the higher-ups at the CIA and have you reprimanded for interfering with my case."

Booth assented begrudgingly.

"Good. Looks like the body has arrived," Doggett said, eyeing the flurry of activity taking place on the platform outside of Cam's office. "I'm hoping there will be some trace evidence that will lead us to where Jacob was holding Katie and Dr. Brennan. I'm headed to the airport to meet with the woman at the charter company, but I've got a team at the ready if your people can nail down a location here." He headed out the door, followed by Cam, who was already barking orders to the FBI team.

Booth rushed out after them and caught up to Doggett. "Doggett. Let me help. Please." This lack of jurisdiction was maddening – even more so now that he was having to constantly petition for inclusion in the case.

Doggett stopped and squared off to face Booth, irritated. "I can't, Booth. Cullen and Hacker will have my ass if I do. Besides, your anger management issues are hindering my work."

Booth's face registered a mixture of frustration and despair, and Doggett caved. He knew not to take Booth's assault on him personally. The likely scenario that Jacob had killed both women and had fled the country remained unspoken between them, but he knew that Booth was desperate to disprove this theory. He stepped closer and lowered his voice. "Look. There's a good chance that the woman at the airport was wrong. They could still be here in the area, and if they are, we'll find them. But I gotta get over there right now and eliminate that angle."

Booth nodded and looked away, his jaw tight.

Doggett clapped Booth on the shoulder, his voice optimistic. "You want to be in on the action? Wait till your squints find particulates. We should be able to track down where he's been holding them. When it comes time to kick in the doors and take that bastard down, you can come with me. Hell, your sniper skills could come in handy."

Booth watched him go, and then headed back into Bones' office. There was nothing he could do now but wait while the squints worked, so he collapsed onto the couch and closed his eyes, comforted a little by the familiar surroundings. Exhaustion overtook him, and within seconds, he was asleep.


	19. Chapter 19

_**A/N: This may be futile to post this new chapter on Bones night, but I'm feeling bad for making you wait so long! Life has been nuts, and I've hit some roadblocks, and, well, whatever. I promise that the next chapter will come more quickly (reviews make my Muse sing, so take that for what it's worth). ;)**_

Chapter 19

Brennan awoke with a start, instantly aware of the oppressive humidity and the deafening buzz of cicadas outside. Despite her inability to see past the cinderblock walls, it wasn't hard to guess her location: Jacob had mentioned Colombia, and she knew the climate and distinct sounds of the rainforest quite well, having completed a dig in a Desana village a few years back.

She pushed herself up, ignoring the throbbing within her skull, and assessed her surroundings. She was in the same cinderblock room as before, but now the dirt floor next to her was stained with a large amount of blood. She looked down at her clothing and found that the crimson stain covered the vast majority of the front of her white dress as well. In a brief moment of panic, she checked for an entry wound, and then relaxed as she vaguely recalled the gunshots and Jacob's lifeless body on top of her.

Her thoughts were interrupted when the wooden door before her burst open, and two men carrying submachine guns entered the room, their faces shrouded by ski masks. The shorter of the two went to her and yanked her to her feet by the arm as the other man leveled his gun at her. Without a word, she was bound, gagged, and dragged outside into the harsh sunlight, and then roughly shoved into the canvas-covered bed of an ancient pickup truck.

As the men held the canvas flap open, she quickly noted her surroundings: her prison had been a small, nondescript building, and several other cinderblock huts encircled it. A fire burned in the middle of the compound, but she observed with interest that there seemed to be no other signs of life nearby. A four-wheeler was parked next to a tall tree that apparently doubled as a shooting target, its wood scarred and dotted with small-caliber bullet holes.

The men climbed in behind her, one of them constantly maintaining the gun's position at her back. When both were settled in the back of the truck, the taller man banged on the rear window, signaling the driver that they were ready, and the truck lurched into gear and bounced over the rough dirt road.

Brennan could not see much through the opening at the back of the truck, but every now and then, the canvas flapped open a bit, and she was able to make out a little of the area through which they were traveling. The tree canopy had closed in over them almost immediately upon leaving the compound, the thick vegetation brushing up against the sides of the truck, and the driver often had to slow his pace in order to squeeze through the rainforest that seemed to close them in on all sides.

The journey lasted at least an hour, with neither of the men acknowledging Brennan in any way as they bounced along the road. They did not speak to one another; instead, they communicated using eye movements and subtle gestures. She ascertained from their common bone structure that they were most likely brothers, which explained their secret language.

Finally, the truck heaved to a halt, and the driver sounded the horn twice. Brennan could hear the rushing of water outside, and when one of the men jumped out of the back and held open the flap for his partner, she saw that they were parked on the banks of a large river – a tributary of the Amazon, she guessed. Once again the gun was leveled at her, and the men signaled for her to disembark, grabbing her upper arms and lifting her out of the truck when she reached the edge of the truck bed.

Her feet landed on loamy soil, and the shorter man jerked her by the arm and led her through thick, reedy undergrowth towards a rather out-of-place luxury houseboat moored to the banks of the river. Still holding her arm, he rapped on the door with his rifle, then jabbed the gun into her ribs as they waited.

After a few minutes, they were greeted by the sound of multiple locks turning on the other side of the door, and then it swung open slowly, revealing a well-dressed man of Middle Eastern descent who greeted them with a smile.

"Hello, Juan Carlos. I see that you have brought me a guest. Come in, please." He held the door wide, allowing Brennan and her captor to enter, leaving the other man outside. Their host led them into a living space full of antiques and replete with ornate, custom-inlaid paneling on its walls. Several chandeliers hung heavily from the ceiling, and fresh flowers filled every table in the room. The space reminded Brennan of a funeral parlor, and she shuddered at the implication.

Juan Carlos led Brennan to a curved sofa in the corner of the room, and then roughly forced her down onto its cushions. Their host, his demeanor cool, immediately strode to her and lifted the gag from her mouth and squatted before her. He lifted her chin with a finger and carefully studied her face, assessing it as he would a prize.

"Hmm," he said, clicking his tongue. "Such a pretty lady. What a shame."

He held her gaze for a moment too long, then stood and walked to the window, hands clasped behind his back, silently gazing out onto the river outside. Brennan shifted uncomfortably on the couch, her hands and arms aching under the restraints. Finally, the man turned to Juan Carlos, and his face darkened.

"You took care of 'Jacob,' as he calls himself?" he queried, and Juan Carlos nodded.

"Good," the man said, obviously pleased. "You and your brother will be compensated well. He was a foolish and ridiculous man – and careless. That he allowed an undercover FBI operative to infiltrate his operation shows extreme lack of judgment and discretion."

He regarded Brennan carefully. "I'm sorry if he mistreated you. We do not condone the disrespect of women, and I'm afraid that our friend, who was ruled by his fleshly desires, might have attempted to take advantage of you. I apologize if that is the case."

Brennan resisted the urge to let her guard down, knowing that any kindness shown to her was temporary. She remained stone-faced, and he stared at her for a minute, as if waiting for her to speak. When she did not, he turned his attention back to Juan Carlos, unaffected by her silence.

"Take her downstairs and let her shower and eat. I want you to treat Dr. Brennan as our esteemed guest while she is with us." He sat in a nearby armchair and paused to light a cigar, puffing large plumes of smoke into the air above his head. Setting down his lighter, he looked at Brennan pointedly.

"I will be honest with you, Dr. Brennan. I do plan to kill you. However, I refuse to stoop to the level of the Americans. I do not believe in torture. Your physical needs will be met while you are here, and your death is meant to serve a higher purpose. It will not be in vain, and your sacrifice will be rewarded by Allah."

At his nod, Juan Carlos lifted her by the elbow and helped her to her feet. She was led down a narrow hall and up a curved staircase to a corridor containing several doors, and he fumbled with a set of keys as they stopped at a door towards the middle of the hallway. He unlocked the door and swung it open to reveal a windowless guest room that was similarly appointed with ornate antiques and luxurious fixtures.

He followed her into the room, shutting the door behind him, and pulled a small butterfly knife from his pocket. He turned her around and cut the bonds from her wrists, then nodded towards a door that led to an en suite bathroom.

"Puede bañar ahora. Ropa está aquí." _You may bathe now. Clothes are in here. _

Brennan nodded her understanding, and he watched her closely as she opened a small closet and picked out a pair of men's cargo pants and a t-shirt.

She felt his eyes on her as she crossed the room to the bathroom, but he remained in the bedroom as she fumbled for the light switch and shut the door.

Finally alone, she heaved a sigh of relief as she leaned against the door. She could hear Juan Carlos as he initiated a phone call and spoke in soft, clipped Spanish to whomever was on the other end of the line. Exhausted and aching from head to toe, Brennan stood in the bathroom undecided about what to do. For the moment, she was trapped. The mental fog from the constant drugging was slowly beginning to lift, but she still wrestled with her cognitive facilities, frustrated that the synapses in her brain still were not firing the way in which she was accustomed. Realizing that she had not showered in quite a while, she welcomed the opportunity, despite the less-than-ideal circumstances. She hesitated only briefly, then ripped the filthy white dress from her torso, turned the shower to hot, and stepped in, the spray stinging her skin and bringing a welcome sensation of relaxation to her battered body.

**####################**

Doggett reached the airport shortly after dark and sped to the small hangar where the charter company was located. The metal building was shrouded in darkness save for a floodlight on the back corner near the hangar door. A glass door at the front of the building was carefully lettered with the name of the small company, and he pulled on the handle, cursing when he found it to be locked. He had gone out of his way to emphasize the importance of meeting with the woman who booked the flights, and her lack of consideration irritated him.

Cupping his hands to get a better look inside, he noticed a light burning in the back office, and he banged on the door with his keys, hoping that she was locked inside, waiting for him.

After several unsuccessful attempts to rouse anyone inside, he rounded the building, and as he approached the hangar doors, his instincts on high alert as he noticed that they were slightly ajar. Reaching for his gun, he flattened his body against the large door and crept toward the open space between the two doors.

The hangar was awash in light, its shiny floor reflecting the harsh overhead floods, and Doggett could easily see the entire interior from his vantage point. The room was empty, and he slipped inside, maintaining his position against the outer walls and working his way around the room until he reached a metal door, which opened into a darkened hallway.

The corridor was silent, and he held his gun at the ready as he made his way towards the front of the building. Light spilled from a room on his right about halfway down the hallway, and he approached with his gun at the ready.

His heart sank as he entered the small office, its interior in utter disarray. File cabinets were upended, and manila files and their contents were strewn everywhere. The desk chair had been turned on its side, and Doggett rounded the desk, his worst fears realized at the sight of the woman's body on the floor, a gaping exit wound in the center of her forehead, and blood spatter on the wall she had obviously been facing at the time of her murder.

He cursed again and ran out of the office, quickly searching the rest of the suite for any sign of the intruders. Finding it empty, he called in the crime scene, then returned to his car through the hangar to wait for backup.

Twenty minutes later, the place was crawling with agents, and Doggett paced impatiently in the hallway outside the office, resisting the urge to nag as the investigators combed through evidence. After a few minutes, a female agent stepped out into the hallway and approached him.

"Agent Doggett? I wanted to give you an update on what we've found so far. It looks like a classic execution-style murder. Perps were after something, though – the hard drive on her computer tower is missing, as is the hard drive on a second computer we found up front."

Doggett felt his jaw tighten. "Any surveillance cameras on the premises?"

"Not that we've found. We're currently looking for flight records and bills-of-lading – anything that might tell us whether or not your guy was here with Brennan. I promise we'll tear the place apart, Agent Doggett."

He thanked her and left behind the flurry of activity to step outside. He was about to call the Jeffersonian to check in when a black government-issue vehicle pulled up next to his. A senior DEA agent he recognized from an earlier case jumped out and strode towards Doggett, flashing his badge.

"Agent Doggett, John Walters. Nice to see you again." The agent looked grim as he stuck out a hand. Doggett shook it firmly, and then Walters nodded towards the hangar. "I'm here because we've been working a case involving the Montoya drug cartel in Colombia. This charter company has been popping up on our radar for a while now; they have a suspected connection to the cartel, and I'm afraid that your partner may have gotten mixed up in a smuggling ring."

Doggett was sick. "So you know about this Jacob character? Don't tell me he's part of a drug cartel."

"Not sure who you're referring to, but he may be a small-timer in the organization. Probably just a runner."

"Well, whoever the hell he is, I'm pretty sure he's got my partner. The dead woman inside told me earlier that he took off on a plane from here earlier this afternoon. Any ideas where in Colombia he might have gone?"

Walters nodded. "Montoya operates out of a compound in the jungle. They're pretty advanced despite the primitive area – they've got an airstrip out there, a couple of planes – I'd guess they took her down there. We've suspected for a few months now that they've had a humans-for-drugs trade going on, but it's been pretty hard to come up with anything concrete thus far."

Just then, a field agent approached them with a plastic evidence bag. "Agent Doggett, we found a flash drive on the victim. It was in her shoe – she might have been trying to hide it from whoever attacked her. We almost missed it, but her shoe fell off when the coroner lifted her onto the gurney."

Doggett took the bag from the agent and jogged to his truck. He retrieved his laptop from the backseat and set it on the trunk of the car, booted up, and plugged the flash drive into the USB port as Agent Walters looked on.

Once he clicked on the flash drive folder on his desktop, a box appeared, prompting him to enter a password. He quickly keyed in the most common passwords, and after several unsuccessful attempts, slammed the lid to his laptop and threw it onto the front seat.

"Agent Walters," he said as he moved to the driver's side door, "I'm taking this flash drive to my team at the Jeffersonian. I've got someone who can crack this. Care to ride along?"

Walters nodded and slid into the passenger seat. "I'll fill you in on the rest of the details on the way over. Hopefully this thumb drive will give us a solid lead. Either way, I have a feeling we'll be on flight to Colombia before the end of the night."

**#################**

Booth sat up groggily, the hour or so of sleep on Brennan's couch doing little more than make him more desperate for sleep. Unsure of what had awakened him, he glanced around the room in confusion, until the buzzing in his pocket alerted him to a new message on his phone. Rubbing his eyes, he fished out the device and checked the voicemail.

As the message played back, he saw Angela tentatively peering through the window from the corridor outside, and he waved her in. She entered and stood awkwardly in front of Brennan's desk as he finished his call, and when he sighed and tossed his phone on the couch, she cocked her head.

"Something wrong?"

Booth leaned back and dropped his head, resigned. "Yeah, Angela. Yeah, it is. I've got to go to Gaza now. Just got the call."

Angela opted against the lecture and remained silent as she crossed to the couch, unsure of whether to pity or murder him. She sat tentatively on the edge of the couch next to him, uncomfortable with the closeness, and looked at the floor.

"Do you miss her, or do you just feel guilty?"

Her question floored him, and he stared at her for a moment, incredulous. "Wh-what? What kind of question is that, Angela?"

She shook her head and looked at him with remorse. "I'm sorry, Booth. I'm really trying not to take this out on you. I just – I just feel like everything is, well, off. It has been for almost a year, since you both came back. It's like you're both just – lost, you know?"

Booth nodded, head bowed. "It _is_ my fault. I shouldn't have left. I should never have severed our partnership." His jaw tightened as he blinked back angry tears. "And now… now, she's out there somewhere, and I have to run off to the other side of the fucking planet to interview another fucking terrorist."

He slammed his fist down on the table in front of him and stood, pacing vigorously in front of Brennan's desk, tears falling unabashedly now. "To answer your question, Angela, I do feel guilty – I feel guilty because the woman I love is in harm's way, and I could have stopped it, but I was to damn self-absorbed to care! I feel guilty because I treated her like shit, because I've pushed her out of my life for the last year, because I stupidly tried to replace her with someone else, and because I may never have the chance to tell her how fucking sorry I am. I hate myself for it, and I'll never forgive myself if something happens to her."

His eyes flashed with anger, and Angela cowered a little; despite the fact that his anger was directed at himself, angry Booth was still an intimidating sight to behold. She watched him as he wore a groove in the floor in front of her like a caged animal, his eyes wild with emotion.

Booth felt the panic rising as he paced. Scenarios of Brennan's plight flashed through his mind, and he was completely powerless to save her. The realization dropped him to his knees, and he doubled over on the floor, pounding on the tile as he moaned in agony, a broken man.

Angela rushed to his side and knelt, and, wrapping her arms around his shoulders, she wept with him, offering her comfort as he fully realized the ramifications of his actions.

She had never seen him this desperate, and she knew that this was part of his penance, and so she offered her forgiveness willingly.

"Booth," she said softly once his episode had subsided a little. "Hey, sweetie, listen. I know you believe in fate. I know you believe that everything happens for a reason. Maybe, for whatever reason, this was what had to happen to finally seal the deal with you and Bren. Like a course correction."

He sat back on his heels and let out a cathartic exhalation. "Yeah," he said softly. "I just hope it's not too late for her…"

"Sweetie. You have to have some hope. You believe that God is good, right? So maybe you need to trust in the path you're on. It would be pretty cruel for God to work all this out in you, only to rip Bren out of your life forever, right? That doesn't sound like the God I've heard you talk about."

Booth was stunned at Angela's grasp of the things he believed, the things that he'd so easily forgotten when he'd been so wrapped up in trying to fix things on his own. He'd lost sight of those first two steps he'd learned in Recovery, and everything had gone to hell after that.

She was right. This was a course correction for him. Filled with new resolve, he stood to his feet, flooded with new clarity and renewed purpose.

"So, G-man, what are you going to do?" Angela asked as he helped her stand. "You gonna tell the CIA to screw off?"

Booth shook his head somberly. "As much as I want to, I can't. I am in the middle of a pretty volatile case, and we're pretty sure there's going to be a terror attack attempted here in D.C. in the next week. I'm locked in – I have to see this through. But after this trip, the analysts will handle most of the work, and any downtime I have at the Agency will be used to help you squints out."

"Doggett is a good man and a good agent, Booth. He's the best, in fact. Cam told me that he found an agent who had been missing over a year – one whom everyone thought was dead. Trust him, Booth. He'll find her."


	20. Chapter 20

Chapter 20

The military Learjet sat motionless at the entrance to the runway, and Booth was losing patience. He glanced from his notes on his iPad to his watch, realizing that the plane had been waiting to take off for well over an hour.

He did not have time for this. Every hour that was lost on the front end of this trip meant an hour that he was not able to spend looking for Bones. Already feeling helpless, the last thing he needed was another wild goose chase, tracking a terrorist informant who might or might not have information regarding next week's rumored attack. His heart was not in this.

The CIA job was given to him as a favor, his credentials buying him a position for which he was overqualified, and he knew that they were merely keeping him busy until his sniper skills could be called into action. This trip was unnecessary; an analyst working leads from a desk at Langley could easily attain the information he would collect, and in half as much time. They were probably already working towards that end. Problem was, he no longer had access to the higher-ups who decided such things, and the luxury of pleading his case was no longer his. Now, he wanted out.

He'd gotten it wrong – everything. He made his first mistake on the steps of the Hoover when Bones had turned him down, and after that, his wrong choices had spiraled out of control, a giant snowball that had wiped out everything in its path and left destruction and heartache in its wake.

He thought about his recent descent into drunkenness and debauchery. That damn stubbornness of his - it could have gotten him killed.

It very well might have gotten Bones killed, too.

Booth looked out the small window at the air traffic as it took off on the runway in front of his plane, his leg bouncing furiously as his last vestiges of longsuffering slipped away. He was going to go nuts sitting here. He slammed his iPad case shut and tossed it on the seat next to him, unbuckled his seatbelt, and launched himself into the aisle. In three steps he was at the cockpit door, knocking a little too loudly, demanding some sort of communication.

The door opened instantly, and he took a step backward as the co-pilot's face appeared, furrowed with irritation.

"Yes, Agent Booth?"

"Any word on when we're leaving? What's the damn holdup?" Booth knew his tone was clipped, but he didn't care. "I sort of have a job to do – you know, terrorists to catch, things like that."

The co-pilot stepped into the cabin and crossed his arms. "We are awaiting new orders from the Company. It's out of our hands at the moment. I'd advise you to take your seat, have a drink, and relax."

Booth forced his rising anger down. "New orders? Plans have changed?"

"We are waiting to find out. As soon as we know something, I'll let you know."

Booth rolled his eyes as he turned to head back to his seat. "Yeah, right," he muttered. "Thanks for keeping me in the loop."

His phone was ringing when he reached his place, and he hastily snatched it up.

"Booth!" he answered gruffly.

"Agent Booth, it's Finley."

Booth was interested to hear what his boss was going to say, considering he'd left him hanging here for an eternity. "I'm listening."

Booth heard nothing but silence for a moment. Finally, Finley cleared his throat, choosing to ignore Booth's attitude. "Looks like you're gonna get to sleep in your own bed tonight, after all. Our Hezbollah contact was found beheaded in his home about an hour ago. Bastards took out his entire family. We'll have a briefing on the CUFI conference and the Israeli Prime Minister's visit in the morning at ten. In the meantime, get some sleep."

Booth wished he cared about CUFI and CIA briefings, but he was more interested in grabbing his things and heading for the exit. No way in hell was he going to sleep in his own bed tonight – he had no plans on going home at all. He descended the stairs onto the tarmac, headed for his car, and dialed Cam's number, eager for an update.

**################**

"Damn it!" shouted Doggett, punching the dashboard as he waited for Walters to climb in and start the car. "I can't believe I let myself be snowed by her!" Walters slammed his door, and soon they were tearing out of the Jeffersonian garage towards the hospital to have a come-to-Jesus talk with Hilary Fisher.

The flash drive they had found at the hangar had contained exactly what they needed to connect Jacob with the cartel. They'd spent the last hour with Angela as she worked her magic to decrypt the contents of the drive, and when at last the pieces fell together, Doggett came unglued.

The woman at the charter company had kept a careful log of each flight Jacob had taken, with whom he traveled, and when he returned. She documented numerous flights to Colombia, with Jacob and a female companion escorting three to four women on each trip, and returning without them. The charter employee had carefully described Jacob and his companion, and it was Angela who first realized that the female companion was none other than Hilary Fisher.

The entire picture was not clear, but Doggett and Walters both felt confident that he had exchanged women in his group for drugs. The only thing they hadn't found yet were the actual flight records, but they'd left Angela with instructions, and Doggett felt comfortable that she'd come up with something before morning light.

Now, at three in the morning, they were headed to the hospital in Cheverly to confront Ms. Fisher, visiting hours be damned. The twenty-minute drive was killing Doggett.

"So," Walters began punching the accelerator to beat a red light, "my people are trying to track down the owner of Burnet Aviation, but he seems to have disappeared. My guess is that he's pretty well connected with the Montoya cartel. The woman who was killed was probably an innocent employee who caught on to the shady goings-on there."

Doggett nodded. "Too bad she got caught in the middle. She kept damn good records, though."

"Probably trying to protect herself. I'm sure Jacob's face all over the news was the last straw. I wish we'd gotten to her sooner."

Walters pulled into the hospital parking lot, and Doggett leapt out of the car before the car had fully stopped. He barreled through the sliding doors and flashed his badge as he rushed the front desk, demanding immediate attention from the young man who sat behind it.

"Need to see one of your patients. Now. Hilary Fisher."

"Y-yes, sir. But visiting hours…." The kid's eyes were saucers.

"I don't give a shit about visiting hours, okay?" Doggett leaned in, palms on the desk, and looked the young man in the eye in a classic stare-down. "My partner's life is in danger, and one of your patients has information about her. You're gonna tell me her room number, okay?"

The man nodded slowly and pulled up the information on the computer as Walters appeared behind Doggett. "Room 2365. North Tower. I'll call ahead and let the nurses know, okay, sir?"

Doggett pushed off the counter, and they rushed through the maze of corridors until they found the elevator to the North Tower, and moments later, they found the wing where Hilary was located.

The nurse's station was empty, and Doggett and Walters waited impatiently for a few minutes before a nurse finally emerged from a room a few doors down. Walters waited as Doggett rushed to her, showed his badge, and explained their situation, and the nurse pointed to the room at the end of the hallway. At Doggett's nod, Walters followed, and they waited as the nurse quietly opened Hilary's door and stepped inside.

The room was dark, but the bathroom light allowed Doggett to see that Hilary was not alone. A middle-aged woman slept awkwardly on a chair in the corner, and the nurse gently patted her shoulder. The woman jolted awake, standing suddenly when she saw the two men in the doorway. At the nurse's gesture, the woman followed her shakily towards the door, and Doggett and Walters stepped back into the hallway as the woman blinked against the harsh fluorescent lighting.

"What is this?" she said, stepping into the hallway fully and shutting the door softly behind her.

"Are you Hilary's mother?"

"Yes. Who are you?"

Doggett introduced himself and Agent Walters. "We have reason to believe that your daughter has information regarding the disappearance of my partner. I apologize for the late hour, but this is an emergency, ma'am."

"My daughter has been through a lot, Agent Doggett. She needs her rest. Can't this wait a few more hours?"

"I'm afraid not, ma'am. A woman's life is at stake, and Hilary may have been involved in something more than a cult. Agent Walters here is with the DEA – we've found some disturbing connections between the Handmaidens of Mercy and a Colombian drug cartel. If that's the case, Hilary is in serious trouble."

The woman slumped against the wall, her already-weary face lined with anguish. "This gets worse and worse as the days go by. I just can't believe this." Her eyes filled with tears, and she looked away briefly, and then she nodded slowly. "Agent Doggett, my daughter is naïve and has made some poor decisions lately. I'm sure that, if she's involved in the things you say, she was coerced into them. Please, just be gentle with her."

Doggett pursed his lips and looked at her with pity in his eyes. "I promise that we'll do everything we can to make sure she's treated fairly."

She followed them inside the room and approached Hilary's bedside as Doggett and Walters waited by the door. She gently shook her awake, and then reached over and turned on the light.

Hilary's eyes registered confusion at first, but when she saw Doggett and Walters, her expression changed to fear.

"Hilary." Her mother's voice was firm. "These men need to talk to you. I know you're scared, but it's very important that you be honest with them."

"Mom? I – I can't…"

"Yes, you can, and you will. Hilary, a woman disappeared. If you know where she might be, they need to know. Do the right thing here."

Hilary nodded meekly, and Doggett stepped up to her bed, his eyes stern.

"Hilary, we know about the trips to Colombia, and we know that you know more than you told us before. My partner is missing, and we know that Jacob has her. We suspect she's been taken to Colombia. I need you to tell me where they might be."

She sat up and adjusted the pillows behind her back, and then fell silent, staring at the wall.

Doggett prompted her. "Hilary. We have a flash drive containing records of every flight you took with Jacob. We know about the women you transported down there. We know that Jacob was running drugs for a cartel. Agent Walters here is an agent with the DEA, and smuggling illegal substances is a federal offense, for which you will be sent to prison for a very, very long time. You have the opportunity to make things easier for yourself, but you have to help us. Otherwise, we'll have no choice but to arrest you."

Hilary's eyes flashed to Doggett. "I didn't do anything! Jacob made me go! I was supposed a plant – the one who made the other girls feel safe. Everyone knew that I had been part of the Handmaidens since the group was formed, and if I willingly went, Jacob knew that others would follow."

Doggett crossed his arms and frowned. "What happened to them when they got down there?"

"We took them to a compound in the jungle somewhere and handed them over to Montoya. I don't know what happened to them after that."

"And what did you get in return?"

"Me?" Hilary shrugged. "Nothing. I got to go back home. I got favor with Jacob."

"What did Jacob receive? Anything?"

"He brought cocaine back here, and he got to keep some of the profits. It's how he funded his church. The girls he sent down to Colombia were those he felt were cracking – it was an easy way to keep them from leaving the Handmaidens and telling the world about who he really was."

Doggett glanced at Hilary's mother, who sat in the corner, tears of shock and outrage streaming down her face as she stared at her daughter.

"Hilary!" she whispered. "Why?"

"He's a good man! He took care of me! He gave me a place to belong and a purpose!" She leaned forward in her bed, nearly folded in half, and wept. "You never gave me those things, mom! I needed a family, and Jacob was there for me… and now – now I've betrayed him, and he's gone!"

Doggett put a hand on Hilary's shoulder. "Hilary, where did he go? He has my partner. He's running. Where in Colombia would he go? Please, it's very important we find her."

"Leticia is the town we always flew into. It's right on the border, and the closest town to the Montoya compound in the jungle. He has a house there that he rents. He was planning on taking your friend and the other girl down there. He wanted to show them off to the cartel – use them for leverage or something, especially since Joy – your partner, I mean – was FBI."

"Thank you, Ms. Fisher." Doggett looked at Walters, who was already on the phone arranging for Hilary's custody and eventual plea agreement. They stepped into the hallway, and Doggett closed the door to the room softly and waited as Walters finished his call.

"My agents are on their way to place her in their custody," Walters said, leaning against the wall. "I'll wait here until they arrive – I'll meet you at the airport in an hour. Take my car. I'll get a ride." He tossed Doggett his keys.

Doggett headed for the car, hopeful for the first time that they might be getting somewhere. He placed a quick call to Hacker, then called Cam to update her briefly on the situation, promising that he'd stop by on his way out to touch base with the team.

**#################**

The houseboat was moving, the soft purring of its motor waking Brennan from her deep slumber. She sat up and blinked against the total darkness, then swung her legs to the floor and stumbled around, searching for a light switch. Finally locating one near the bathroom, she flipped it, shielding her eyes against the sudden assault, and then returned to the edge of the bed to collect her thoughts.

It had been hours since she had emerged from the shower to find herself locked inside the room. Other than the small tray of fruit waiting for her on the bed, there was no sign of Juan Carlos, and there had been no communication with anyone since. Without windows, she had no concept of time – she'd guessed that she'd fallen into a deep sleep around nine in the evening, having given in to boredom and exhaustion, and that she'd been sleeping at least four hours, possibly more. That she did not know whether it was day or night was unnerving, but she pushed the restlessness away for fear that it would begin to wear on her psychologically.

She thought of Booth and his time as a prisoner-of-war, and wondered how he passed the time, how he kept from going losing his wits. She wondered what he would do in her situation – would he engage his captors, try to glean information from them? Would he fight his way out? Would he remain silent? Booth was an honorable man, and she knew that he would let the situation dictate how he behaved. He had a knack for reading people, a skill she'd learned a little of from him, but one that still did not come naturally to her. She needed more information before she could form a plan, but she felt confident that, when the time came, that part of Booth that was forever imprinted upon her would guide her to do what was best.

She wondered where Booth was, and if he was aware of her situation. If he knew she was missing, he'd be wracked with guilt; he'd drop everything to search for her, and he'd torture himself until he'd found her. Once she was safe, he'd feel he had to stick around, and while she desperately missed their partnership – and him – the last thing she wanted was a friendship based on obligation. She was responsible for her own life; she did not want him abandoning his new career and his pursuit of happiness for her sake.

She hoped he'd found some peace. She knew he'd been "lost," as Angela put it, and she hoped that his new life with the CIA – away from her, away from all that his old life represented – had given him perspective and a renewed sense of purpose. She only hoped that, if she ever returned home, she'd be able to find a way to make a new life without him, as he'd apparently done without her. Maybe she'd check into one of the guest professorships she was always politely declining. She wouldn't give Booth the choice to obligate himself to her. It would kill her, but it was the rational thing to do.

Her bedroom door swung open suddenly, and she leapt to her feet as Juan Carlos took a few steps into the room, pointing his gun at her chest.

"Sígueme."

She hesitated, and he jerked the gun towards her impatiently. Finally, she obeyed, and he escorted her out of the room and down the hall, keeping the gun at her back as she negotiated the marble staircase to the level below.

The morning sun shone brilliantly through the tall windows in the atrium, and as he led her out to the sundeck, she realized how little fresh air she'd breathed recently. The gently breeze kissed her face as the boat traveled upriver, and she was surprised at the smooth ride as the bow easily cut through the choppy river waters.

At the far end of the deck, the owner of the boat sat at a large table, an extensive array of breakfast items spread before him. As Juan Carlos nudged her toward the feast, the man stood, smiling broadly.

"Good morning, Dr. Brennan. I hope you slept well. I'd like to invite you to join me for breakfast. I'm sure you are hungry."

Brennan remained expressionless, but sat, realizing that his offer was more of a mandate than an invitation. He poured her a cup of tea from a silver pot and placed it before her.

"We will travel up the river for much of the day. After that, I'm afraid you won't have many opportunities for food, so I would advise you to eat while you can. You will need your strength for the long trip."

"How do you know who I am?" She wondered how long her cover had been blown – it was the only question she dared ask.

"The man who brought you here – Jacob – was quite proud to have you in his possession. He bragged about having an agent in his custody, and sent pictures ahead, hoping to fetch a higher price for you. Of course we were curious, and we did some research. You were quite the find, indeed."

Brennan took a bite of her eggs, grateful for the protein, and as she ate, she felt the strength returning to her body and the fog clearing from her mind. She ate in silence as the man looked on, regarding her with interest as she scarfed down her food.

"You are a political prisoner, Dr. Brennan. As I said before, you will be treated with dignity and without harshness. My religion demands it, and you can expect nothing less than fair treatment here. If your government meets our demands, I will see to it that your death is swift and painless. You have my word."

His casual, almost cordial, mention of her death was chilling, and she attempted to change the subject. "You are not Colombian, nor are you part of Jacob's group. Who are you?"

"It does not matter who I am – I am merely a vessel of Allah." He stood abruptly and squinted at her as the boat rounded a bend, immersing them in full sunlight. "I have work to do inside. Eat as much as you like. You may stay out here until you are finished, and then Juan Carlos will escort you back to your room."

He disappeared through the French doors, leaving Brennan to her meal. She had lost her appetite, but forced herself to keep eating, buying as much time outside the confines of her room as she could.

She took a sip of tea, watching Juan Carlos out of the corner of her eye. He stood at the corner of the deck, still wielding his gun, but she could see that boredom was getting the best of him. When his brother rounded the opposite corner of the boat and strode towards them, Brennan took advantage of the distraction, leapt to her feet, and dove headfirst into the muddy, churning waters, swimming with all her might against the rushing current as the waters forced her under, the two men shouting angrily from the railing above.

o


	21. Chapter 21

Chapter 21

Booth was wearing a groove in the rug in the upstairs lounge of the Medico-Legal lab. He'd found a stray tennis ball under the couch – probably left over from one of Hodgins' crazy experiments - and he bounced it furiously as he paced, frustrated that he was stuck waiting while Doggett and the DEA guy hunted down answers. Save for the short nap on Brennan's couch hours ago, he could not remember the last time he'd slept, but he was too wired to do anything but patrol the lounge area, hoping that he'd get some word soon.

Finally, he heard footsteps on the walkway, and he stopped and turned to see Doggett standing wearily by the rail.

"Colombia. We confirmed it. She's most likely with a drug cartel. I'm headed out now." Doggett looked at Booth pointedly. "You…you wanna come, Booth?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I do." Booth threw his tennis ball over the rail to the lab floor and snatched up his jacket. Somewhere downstairs, the ball crashed into something, sending glass shattering on the floor.

"Hey!" came Hodgins' shocked exclamation from below.

Booth yelled a quick "Sorry!" as Doggett made his way along the catwalk above the lab. Booth took a few hurried steps to catch up. "You hear anything about her condition? Why did he take her there?"

"I'll fill you in on specifics on the way," Doggett answered over his shoulder, "but Jacob was in cahoots with the Montoya cartel, exchanging women for drugs, turning a profit so he could fund his church and all their protests."

Booth froze at the top of the stairs. "You're telling me that Bones has been sold for drugs?" The thought made him want to puke.

"We don't know," said Doggett, who stopped and turned when he noticed Booth wasn't following. "According to Hilary, he was pretty proud of the fact that he'd gotten hold of Dr. Brennan, so there's a good chance that he's either keeping her in his house as a trophy, or trying to hold out for more money from them. He's got less than a day's lead on us, and with the travel, he hasn't had a lot of time to do much."

He continued down the steps, and Booth followed, trying to control the shaking in his knees.

"You notified Interpol?"

Doggett nodded. "Interpol is coordinating with the local police to raid the house in Leticia as we speak. We'll be in the air by the time that goes down, but they said they'd let us know what they found. We'll fly into Leticia and meet up with our field agent there. In the meantime, I've got Angela, as well as my people, scanning satellite images for signs of the Montoya compound in the rainforest there."

They made their way towards the exit, and Doggett stopped to retrieve a bag that was waiting for him by the sliding doors.

Doggett drove, and Booth took advantage of the commute to call Finley, who was not pleased when Booth informed him that he was leaving the country.

"Agent Booth, I'll remind you that we are in the middle of a large terror case, and shirking your duties to run off to Colombia is not advisable for a new agent. You do not have the freedom to come and go as you please at the moment. You are in danger of a formal reprimand for abandoning your post."

Booth rolled his eyes. "Come on, Finley. You've been sending me off on these pissant missions since I started. You can do without me for a few days. I'll be back soon, and my trigger finger will be all warmed up and ready for my sniping duties next week at the CUFI rally."

"I cannot – and will not – authorize this. What is so important that you risk your job?"

"My partner was abducted. The FBI has tracked her as far as Colombia…"

"Agent Booth, I will remind you that you no longer work for the FBI, and your partnership with Dr. Brennan is no longer relevant. You chose to become an agent with the Company, and we own you now. You do what we say, and you go where we tell you to go. Let the idiots at the FBI do their jobs and find their own damn people. You have bigger fish to fry than trying to track down an egghead scientist who doesn't know how to stay out of trouble."

"Fuck you, Finley!" Booth exploded, and Doggett gave him a look of warning. "We're done here. I'll call you when I get back."

He ended the call with disgust, wishing that Finley were nearby so he could wring his scrawny neck. The sonofabitch had no idea…

Almost immediately, his phone lit up in his hand, alerting him to an incoming text:

_I figured you would persist, but I had to try for both of our sakes. Don't get yourself killed. –Finley_

Booth smirked at the message, and the leaned back in his seat as they approached the airport exit. Hopefully, in a few days, he'd have the world set right again, and Bones would be back where she belonged, and then – well, he didn't know what then. He only knew that he was exactly where he was supposed to be, and this was the first step in fixing all that he had broken.

**##################**

The murky rapids sucked Brennan under, and she clawed and thrashed against the current, tossed and buffeted by boulders, branches, and debris. Pushing off a rock on the bottom, she managed to break the surface long enough to get a lungful of air, but then the river pulled her back down, and she flailed, desperately searching for an object to anchor herself to. The water was not deep – only about eight feet – but it was deep enough that she could not find a foothold, and she began to panic as her lungs threatened to give out.

A large branch rushed by, and she grabbed hold and pulled her body over it with all her might, wriggling her way to the surface as the river carried her along. She was able to get her head above the water finally, gasping and coughing as the welcome oxygen filled her lungs. Suddenly, the water slammed her into a large rock, and the current pinned her against it. She took advantage of the situation, allowing herself to rest, gasping for breath as the water held her there.

The houseboat loomed above her, and over the din of the water, she could hear the men shouting from above. Juan Carlos appeared at the rail, followed by his gun, and then came the spray of bullets on the water just shy of her rock. She watched, breathless, as he repositioned and fired again, this time hitting the rock she clung to, chunks of it flying in all directions, sending her back into the current as she dove out of the line of fire. Another report sounded from the gun, followed by another spray of bullets, and she kicked frantically towards the shore.

She reached for a cluster of reeds near the bank as he let off another burst of gunfire. Searing pain sliced through her shoulder, and she cried out in agony as the bullet tore through muscle and flesh, rendering her arm useless. She went under instantly, helplessly tossed about, writhing in pain, her shoulder on fire.

She saw the next boulder only seconds before she hit, and she had no time to brace herself before her head slammed against its smooth, hard surface, solid red filling her vision as her blood filled the water around her. Then the blackness overtook her, and she fought no more as the current carried her limp frame downriver.

**#################**

Alfredo Vásquez Cobo International Airport in Leticia was beyond primitive, and as Booth and Doggett deplaned and claimed their bags on the old, cracked tarmac, Booth wondered how the 737 had managed to land so effortlessly on the ancient runway.

Booth was grateful for the long flight from Miami. He'd slept, although it was mostly a tortured sleep, filled with anxiety over Bones' current situation and horrible visions of what might be happening to her. Still, the little bit of shut-eye rejuvenated him, and when they'd landed, he was ready to hit the ground running.

The humidity enveloped them, and Booth found that his shirt was already drenched in sweat as they waited on the curb for their FBI contact. Doggett pulled out his phone and checked his messages for the fifth time since they landed; he'd heard nothing regarding the raid on Jacob's house, and was frustrated at the lack of communication.

Before long, a small hatchback whipped to the curb, and a man in a Tommy Bahama shirt and serious-looking eyes peeled himself from the driver's seat and strode purposefully towards Booth and Doggett.

"Agent Doggett? I'm Mike Villarreal." He flashed his FBI credentials.

Doggett shook his hand and introduced Booth, then cut to the chase.

"Agent, what the hell is going on with the raid? I've been trying to get word all day, but we've been in the air for ten hours, and communication from Interpol has been severely lacking."

Villarreal scoffed. "This is Colombia. It's not much better on the ground here. I think they use tin cans and carrier pigeons half the time." He picked up their bags and tossed them in the back of the car. "I just got into town from Bogota this morning. I'll fill you in on the way to the hotel."

They climbed in the car - Booth had to fold himself nearly in half to fit into the tiny back seat - and Villarreal pulled into the traffic and raced through the streets as though driving a go-cart, navigating through the crowded, narrow streets deftly and without a word. Booth was growing impatient. He shifted in his seat and held on for dear life as Villarreal maneuvered speedily around various obstacles: fruit carts, slow-moving locals, oblivious tourists, more than a few mopeds.

When they finally reached a straightaway, Villarreal relaxed a bit. "Sorry. The streets are sketchy here, and no one obeys traffic laws." He glanced in the rearview mirror at Booth. "You're CIA?"

Booth nodded. "But I'm here because the woman we're looking for was my partner – my…friend," his voice cracked unexpectedly, and he cleared his throat to cover for his brief show of emotion. "What's going on? Did they find her?"

Villarreal shook his head. "Local police raided the place, but it was clean. The man who owns the house has known ties with the Montoya cartel, but we suspect that some of the police here do, too, so they've not pressed him too hard. The police here did the bare minimum, but if we want any answers, we're going to have to do most of the legwork. I've done a little asking around already this morning – a woman who lives in the unit next door to the one the police raided confirmed that the suspect did stay there occasionally, but she said the place had been empty for months."

"Is it possible she missed Jacob and Brennan?" Doggett spoke up from the passenger seat. "They may not have been there long."

"I doubt it. There's only one flight in and out of Leticia every day, the airport has no record of any private jet activity, so if they flew in, they landed on a private strip in the jungle somewhere."

"The suspect's accomplice said something about a compound in the jungle. You know where that might be?"

Villarreal made a sharp turn down a brick-paved street and stopped in front of a large, slightly run-down hotel. "We don't know the exact location, but after we check you guys in here, we're going to pay a visit to the suspect's landlord and strongly encourage him to help us." He smirked and turned off the car, and they headed into the out-of-date but adequate lobby to check in.

Fifteen minutes later, they were racing through the streets of Leticia once again, the poorly constructed hatchback bouncing roughly along the primitive streets. Already feeling the effects of no sleep and long hours confined to an airplane seat, Booth's back protested with each bump, and he knew that he would pay dearly tomorrow morning for the abuse he'd subjected his body to.

Villarreal turned the car down a narrow side street and pulled up to the curb in front of a ramshackle house with a rusty metal roof. The lawn was littered with trash and car parts, and as the men exited the car, they were greeted by an ugly pit bull who trotted lazily to the end of the yard, barked a few times, and then returned to the shade of a tree at the edge of the house.

They made their way to the front door, carefully picking their way around the tires and scrap metal that was strewn about, when the front door opened and a fat man in a wife-beater and boxers appeared in the doorway. When he saw the three men approach, he froze, then dropped the bottle of beer he was holding, and suddenly darted around the side of the house, running remarkably fast for someone so obviously unfit.

Booth took off after him, tripping over junk and jumping a small chain-link fence that enclosed the back yard. Within seconds he'd caught up, and he launched himself at the man's generous frame, tackling him forcefully.

Doggett and Villarreal pulled up as Booth flipped the heavyset man onto his back and placed him in a chokehold.

"Habla Inglés?" Booth panted. The man's eyes narrowed and his mouth turned downward in disgust.

"Hey, asshole, Inglés?" Booth said through clenched teeth, leaning in and tightening his hold on the man's neck. The man glared and spat in Booth's face.

With lightning speed, Booth reached down and whipped out a small pistol from an ankle holster and jabbed it under the man's chin. "Inglés, compadre! Ahora!"

The man's eyes held the look of disdain as he answered. "Sí! Yes! Fuck you!"

Booth yanked him up by his wife-beater and shoved him forcibly towards the house with Doggett and Villarreal in tow, Villarreal muttering all the way about how Booth was not supposed to be carrying a weapon.

Doggett smirked. "He got what we came for, though."

"If my A.D. hears about this, we're screwed – and deported."

When they reached the crumbling slab of a patio, Booth pushed the man to a seated position on the bench of a rickety picnic table and shoved the gun into his forehead.

"What's your name, amigo?"

"Raul Candido. Who the hell are you?" He gave no indication of fear at the gun pointed at his head.

"Doesn't matter. Here's the thing, Candido. You own a house that a man named Jacob rents. Jacob has taken something very important from me. You're going to tell me where he is."

Candido grinned, revealing a gold tooth. "You mean the FBI _muchacha_? She's probably dead by now. It's too bad. I was hoping for a turn with her."

Booth cocked his gun and pressed it harder into Candido's head. "Where did he take her?" he spat.

Candido shrugged. "Who knows? My boss's boss wanted her. Don't ask me. I'm just a _pinche_."

"And where might we find your boss's boss, as you say?"

"Don't look at me. I never seen him. Just heard about him. El Lobo."

Booth snorted. "The Wolf? Really? Couldn't come up with a better, less stereotypical name there, Candido?"

Candido's face went dark. "You laugh all you want. El Lobo took out the whole camp a few days ago. Burned it to the ground. My brother was there. Jacob, too. If your _muchacha_ was there, she's dead."

Booth felt the bile rising in his throat. "Why would he kill his own people?"

"Montoya isn't his people. He's a fucking towelhead. Someone in the camp pissed him off, didn't pay up, betrayed him, something. I don't know. That's what he does when you don't play by his rules. That's what I've heard, anyway. Like I said, I'm just a _pinche_."

"Listen, asswipe. You are going to take us to that camp. Now. You're going to tell us everything you know about El Lobo, and you're going to help us find him."

Candido's eyes were wide with fear. "Hell, no, man. I got a family. I got kids. I'm alive today because I don't mess with those fuckers."

"I have a feeling you're alive today because you got lucky and were home drinking beer that day," Booth said. "You want revenge for your brother?"

Candido nodded.

"Then you'll help us. If you do, guess what? You get to live. If you don't, we'll put the word out that El Lobo has a loose end that needs to be taken care of here in Leticia."

Candido sighed heavily. "Okay. But I will only take you to the compound. After that, you are on your own."


	22. Chapter 22

_**A/N: I must apologize for the long delay in posting this update! Life has been crazy! I was given not one, but TWO major video projects at work, and literally all of my free time at home was taken with work on these items. My goal has been to at least try and post every Tuesday; I'm hopeful that I can return to that schedule now that my insanity is past. **_

Chapter 22

"You gave us quite a scare, Dr. Brennan."

His hazy form was framed in a doorway, his voice matter-of-fact. She struggled to place him, to identify her surroundings. Confused, she lifted her head slightly, but the searing pain on the right side of her body forced her back down, and she cried out in agony.

"Another dose of morphine, sir?" There was someone else in the room, to her left – someone she could not see, because she could not turn her head.

The hazy man in the doorway nodded, and she felt the prick in her left arm, followed by immediate respite from the pain as her body relaxed into a drug-induced narcosis.

More drugs.

She wanted to tell them that she reacted badly to morphine, that it made her hallucinate. She wanted to know how badly she was hurt, to see her chart, her X-rays. Booth would be here soon, and he would know how to handle those tending to her. He would understand her need to be in control. He'd tell them to stop doping her up. He would get her out of here as quickly as possible.

Except that he wouldn't. The room began to undulate, and she heard the muffled sound of an engine starting beneath her, and she understood then: Booth was not here. She was not at home. She was on a boat. In Colombia. On a river. In captivity.

"Thank you, Arib," said the man at the door – her captor, she remembered. "Once again, I am grateful for your experience as a medic. You may return to your work."

She heard rustling on the left side of her bed as Arib stood, and then finally caught a glimpse of his face when he reached the doorway.

"The containers are almost ready," Arib said in a low voice. "When will we have the main component?"

"As soon as we land," her captor replied.

"Considering her injuries, I will have to modify the design…"

Brennan could not hear the reply given by the other man. The pair suddenly disappeared from her field of vision and into the hallway, and then the door was closed.

She willed her eyes to remain open and forced the synapses in her mind to connect, but the fog grew thicker despite her efforts. Her last lucid thought was that she was being transported to her end, and no one on earth knew how to find her.

**##################**

Candido's boat was a piece of shit. Booth and Villarreal sat on a shoddy wooden bench near a doorway in the bow, shielded by clapboard walls and a flat roof that was thatched with large, palm-like leaves. The boat's rickety hull, painted with an ugly blue paint that had long since faded, bore the name "Don Antonio," and when Doggett asked Candido about the boat's namesake, Candido shrugged.

"Beats me. A guy owed me money. I got a boat out of it."

Candido navigated the boat slowly over the wide, calm waters, sulking as he steered. He had become more and more insolent as the afternoon had progressed, and now he took out his anger on the agents by running the boat at an intolerable crawl. Booth clearly losing it, gave Doggett a pointed look that directed Doggett's attention towards Candido.

"How long to the compound?"

"Two hours," Candido muttered.

"Step on it, Candido," Booth growled. "Make it one hour."

"Can't. My boat will break," Candido said sarcastically. "Besides, wha's the rush? I told you, e'eryone is dead. If your lady's alive, she's El Lobo's _puta_ now. All his boys are probably having a whole lot of fun with her…"

Booth flew out of his seat and pounced on the large man violently, and before Candido knew what hit him, Booth's fist met his mouth like a sledgehammer, dropping him to the deck with a loud _thud_. Booth followed him down, pinning him with a knee in his stomach.

"Listen to me, motherfucker," spat Booth, his mouth close to Candido's ear. "If you ever talk about her like that again, you're a dead man. Also, if anything has happened to her, your ass is going down. I suggest you shut your fat mouth and get a move on. Any delays, and you're alligator bait. Got it?"

Candido shrugged. "Whatever, man. I just telling you like it is. You know how to fix a boat? You know how to find Montoya? You better respect me, or you don't find your lady."

Booth stood and jerked Candido to his feet. "You're a piece of shit, Candido. I've got the gun. That means you do as I say, and I get the respect." Booth lifted the leg of his pants, revealing the gun in his ankle holster.

"Fine, whatever, man," said Candido, holding up his hands and backing off, and Booth strode back to his bench. Villarreal stood and shot him a look of warning.

"So, Candido," said Villarreal, "you a runner for Montoya?"

Candido wiped the blood that was flowing from his mouth on his sleeve. His gave a short, angry nod.

"Drugs or money?"

Candido didn't respond; instead, he fiddled with a tooth, leaned out the crude window next to the helm, and spat into the brown water below.

"Come on, Candido," said Villarreal. "Throw me a bone, here. You're already busted, so you might as well 'fess up."

Candido wiped his mouth again and sighed. "Look, man. I ain't proud of what I done. I got a family. I got a baby girl. I have to make ends meet, you know? I get in with Montoya because they want to use one of my rent houses as a safe house. I know they got drugs in there, but I look the other way…I get paid. Then I find out that they got girls for sale – young girls, you know? – and I get mad and try to kick them out. They tell me to fuck off, and they threaten my family. They even kill my dog, man! So I turn my head. Then, their _hombre_ who brings the girls from the jungle to Leticia dies, and I got a boat, so they tell me I got to do the job now."

Villarreal crossed his arms. "So how often do you transport these women?"

"There's a new delivery e'ery couple months."

"So tell me about Jacob. The man who brings the girls from America?"

"He's some kind of _fanático religioso_ – I never liked him. He liked to use them before he got rid of 'em. _Pinche cabron_."

Booth did his best not to imagine what Jacob had done with Bones. Instead, he stood and made his way back to Candido.

"Did you see my partner?"

"No. I only heard about her. I was supposed to go get her and another _muchacha_, but plans changed. They told me not to come because El Lobo wanted the FBI lady and the other one was dead. Then I heard yesterday that El Lobo got real pissed about something and burned the whole place to the ground….I don't know, man." He shook his head and gazed out the small window for a few minutes, lost in thought. Finally, he turned and looked Booth in the eye. "Look, I'm real sorry 'bout your lady. If I help you find her, you keep me alive?"

Booth nodded. "Yeah, Candido. Can't promise you'll stay out of jail, but we can definitely keep you alive."

Candido breathed a sigh of relief, squared his shoulders, and nudged the boat throttle to full power. The rickety craft lurched forward in a sudden show of uncharacteristic power, nearly knocking the men off balance, and Candido grinned.

"Now we go fast. I lied before. Be there in 45 minutes."

**#########################**

The rain began to fall just as Candido eased the boat along the riverbank. It pelted them angrily as they stepped from beneath the shelter of the boat's thatched roof, and it made the leap onto the rickety wooden dock downright precarious. Candido, still on the boat, tossed a rope to Villarreal, who promptly tied off the boat, and then he leapt onto the dock and motioned for the men to gather. They huddled near the edge of the dock on the bank, already soaked to the bone as the huge raindrops assaulted them.

"It's twenty minute walk to the camp," Candido shouted over the din. "This jungle is very dangerous, very slippery. Watch where you step, but also watch out for what is on the branches you grab. Lots of very bad spiders and snakes."

He led them to a narrow mud path, each of them slipping as they attempted to keep up, and Booth found it nearly impossible to navigate through the dense growth without brushing against every plant on the trail. The tree canopy overhead provided some shelter from the pouring rain, but the ground was saturated and his feet soon grew heavy as the mud clung to his boots.

He thought of Bones and her many jungle expeditions. He'd never personally witnessed her in this context, but stumbling over the rough terrain now, he realized that he'd very much like to see her in this element some day. He'd seen pictures, of course, but the thought of her tromping through mud, fending off pestilence, and interacting with natives was so damn… well, it was hot.

She really was amazing. Angela had let it slip once that Bones had been held hostage for several days while on a dig in a place very similar to this. His stomach clenched as he realized that this was not the first time she'd found herself in these circumstances. If he had to bet on anyone making it out alive after the attack on the Montoya compound, he'd gladly put his money on Bones. Still, the panic rose when he considered the sex-crazed cult leader and what she was being subjected to, and the urgency to find out what had happened at the Montoya compound caused him to quicken his pace.

She had to be alive. It could not end this way, with all this unresolved bullshit between them. He had messed things up – possibly beyond repair – but he had to at least attempt to make things right. He had to have the chance to say the things he'd never had the guts to say to her. Regardless of her reaction, and whether or not she would ever forgive him, he would try – for the rest of his life, if necessary – to set things right again.

He thought of how she had been there for him the night he broke up with Hannah, how she'd been there for him countless other times. Six years. She'd stuck it out for six years. The impervious woman with the attachment issues had been his constant, and he had been hers, and neither one had noticed – until Sweets pointed it out, anyway – that what they had was a relationship all along. Lovers had come and gone in both of their lives, and in the end, it always came back to the two of them. It was undeniable. He knew it, and, judging from her letter to him, she knew it, now, too.

He'd always been protective of her, but he'd allowed his selfishness to get in the way, and she had paid the price. He'd crash the gates of hell to fix this. As he slipped along the path, he realized that he was praying, his words matching the rhythm of each step: "Keep her safe. Help her. Let her be okay…"

Suddenly, Candido stopped and turned.

"Here. Just through the trees."

Booth pulled up beside him and removed his gun from his ankle holster. He motioned for the others to follow as he crept slowly through the tangled mass of vines and thick underbrush, which served as a natural fence, shielding the former group of buildings on the other side.

Cautiously, he followed Candido into a clear area on the perimeter of the camp, with Doggett and Villarreal just behind him, each reacting in turn to the scene before them as they cleared the trees.

Small huts had once stood in a circle around the edge of the camp, but all that remained were heaps of charred ruins and ashes. The camp was littered with dozens of bodies – some within the rubble, charred and nearly unrecognizable; others that appeared to have been shot, laid out in the open. Buzzards blackened the ground, fighting over pieces of flesh in a feeding frenzy. The rain had stopped and the sun was breaking through now, and the hot, moist air was heavy with the smell of wet, burnt wood and decaying corpses.

Booth choked back the bile rising in his throat and forced his feet to carry him forward. If Bones was among the dead, he was unsure what he'd do, or if he'd have the ability to make it back to the boat.

He picked his way through the camp, eliminating each victim as he passed, examining first those that lay out in the open. He could tell by the clothing that all of the victims were male. Each victim he checked brought a mixture of relief and of growing fear – what if she had been inside one of the buildings? It would be nearly impossible for him to determine gender on the bodies in the rubble, charred as they were. He wished he'd paid more attention to Bones' methods over the years, and he hoped that he wouldn't have to use what little he did know of her process to identify her body.

When he had finally ruled out Bones among the identifiable dead, he made his way to the cinderblock building in the center of the compound. It was the only building that remained standing, and he approached it with a heavy heart, peering past the wooden door and into the darkness of its interior. It was a small building, consisting of only one room, with a dirt floor and no windows. He took a deep breath and stepped inside, impatiently willing his eyes to adjust to the shadows.

Once he could finally see his surroundings, the first thing he noticed was the vast amount of blood that stained the dirt floor. Someone had been seriously injured or killed in here, but had either escaped or had been removed. Neither scenario bode well for whoever it was.

He knelt in the dirt and touched the stain as if he could read it. He knew her like he knew himself. He'd seen her bleed - several times, in fact. This did not _feel_ like her blood. He knew he was being ridiculous, and if Bones were here, she'd reprimand him for listening to his "gut," but something deep within felt…sure.

As he stood and brushed the dirt off his hands, a small, shiny object on the ground near the door caught his eye, and he knew what it was even before he reached for it. He carefully picked it out of the dirt and held it to the light, his throat tightening. It was her dolphin ring. Bones had been in this room. He wasn't sure why, but he felt relieved.

Doggett's silhouette appeared suddenly in the doorway. "No sign of her among the dead so far. We're going to start looking in the burnt buildings…"

"She's not here," Booth interrupted, his voice cracking.

"Agent Booth, I appreciate where you're coming from here, but we need to be thorough…"

"She's not here," he repeated. "They've taken her somewhere else, or she escaped. Either way, she's alive."

Villarreal appeared behind Doggett. "How could you possibly know that?"

Booth walked towards them and ushered them back outside. "I just know. You find anything?"

"Yeah. The cult leader's body is in a burned-out trash heap at the back of the compound. Shot in the back and discarded there, looks like. From the debris on top of him, he's been there longer than the rest of the vics. And judging from his entry wounds, he was shot with a small-caliber weapon. The rest were taken out by something much larger."

"So someone else must have killed him," said Booth. "Maybe one of the cartel members. I noticed that most had .22s in their holsters. Didn't do them a lot of good."

Doggett looked around thoughtfully. "Candido said that this all went down yesterday. I'm wondering if the murder of the woman at the aviation company is connected to the destruction of the compound here. Maybe word got back to El Lobo that they'd been made, and that, coupled with the knowledge that Jacob had brought a famous FBI scientist into the camp – someone who the whole world would be looking for – prompted this attack."

Villarreal nodded. "What about Dr. Brennan, though? Why didn't he kill her?"

"Because she's Dr. Temperance Brennan," said Booth. "She is well-known, she works with the U.S. government, and she's more valuable to him alive – either for ransom, or to prove a point. Candido called him a "towelhead" – it's long been suspected that terror organizations and drug cartels have been working together. If he's a terrorist, Brennan will be used to leverage something. Find the identity of El Lobo, and there's a good chance we can figure out what he's after… and it could lead us to Bones. We've got to get back. Langley might know something about El Lobo."

_**There you have it! Maybe it's a good thing that Booth is CIA right now, huh? **_

_**Keep those reviews coming! I treasure them – they inspire me! You guys are amazing! See you SOON!**_


	23. Chapter 23

_**A/N: Happy Bones finale week, everyone! I have a feeling it's going to be a LONG summer. Thank God we have our fiction! :-p **_

_**I am trying quite hard to get back on a once-a-week posting schedule. I'm really trying not to leave y'all hanging too long! **_

Chapter 23

Brennan was unsure whether hours or days had passed since she'd been pulled from the river. The medic had returned at some point to administer an IV and another shot of morphine, and then once again to change the bag when it was empty. Each time, he'd spoken to her softly in Arabic. She knew enough of the language to understand his explanation that he was trying to help her. After tending to her bandages, he slipped out, leaving her to fend off visions of scorpions dropping from the ceiling like rain and snakes slithering through her sheets. Booth made an appearance in her hallucinations once or twice – she saw him in the doorway, staring at her silently, his eyes hard, and despite her best efforts to communicate her need for his help, he shrugged flippantly and walked out of the room.

Now, as the sedative released its hold on her, she willed her brain to return to its normal functions – it had always been her greatest weapon, and since she was immobilized with pain and drugs, it was all she had at the moment. She was too foggy to complete the necessary calculations to determine her tenure in the room based on the rate of flow of the medicine into her veins, so she tried instead to assess her surroundings. She had to get a realistic picture of her situation. She had to come up with a plan.

Heat emanated from her shoulder under the bandages, and her arm throbbed. She raised her head painfully and noted that her arm was swollen and streaked with red and purple – signs of infection, likely caused by the high levels of bacteria in the river. She was at great risk of becoming septic – she'd seen it happen once before with a colleague who'd decided to bathe in a river in Ecuador after receiving a minor cut on his leg – and she realized that her captors were going to great lengths to keep her alive. The bag of fluid that flowed into her veins was likely a powerful antibiotic.

She dropped her head, wincing at the pain that shot through the right side of her body. It served as a stimulant to her mind, and as her senses returned, she noticed for the first time that she no longer heard the sound of the boat's engine beneath her. She realized it had been unusually silent in the room since she opened her eyes, though she still felt the gentle rocking of the water.

The man who had taken her said that they were traveling upriver. She knew that their journey had originated in the southern part of Colombia, and that if they followed the river northward, they'd eventually hit the mountainous area of the country. She wondered if they had taken a different body of water into Ecuador, or if they were planning on moving her to a plane. Either way, she was curious about where she'd ultimately end up, and why.

The isolation was maddening. She had been locked up in various places for how long – weeks? A month? It was sketchy at best. She'd been sedated for most of her incarceration. During the few moments of lucidity, she'd forced herself to remain calm. She'd stuffed down the feelings of panic and despair that threatened to worm their way into her psyche. She'd focused her energy on trying to handle her situation as Booth would.

Now, though, she was alone with only her thoughts, and hopelessness gnawed at her. As much as she hated to admit it over the years, she'd grown accustomed to the security that partnership with Booth afforded. When the Gravedigger had taken her, he'd found her. When Epps found his way into her apartment, Booth had taken him out. He'd continued to watch over her even in little ways – most recently, and despite his obligations to another woman, he'd followed her to a bad part of town in the pouring rain and had saved her from being hit by a car. She could not count the times he'd seemed to "just know" when she needed help; he was always there, just in time.

Things were different now. Now he was gone. Now, she supposed, his instincts regarding her well being had been cast aside. Self-pity coursed through her, its intensity taking her off guard, but she did not feel like fighting it. She allowed the tears to fall, for the inner pain of the last several months to come fully to the surface.

It had taken six years to convince her that "not everyone leaves" – that he was different. She'd made it through much of her life on her own, having been systematically abandoned by everyone around her. It was a fact of life, and she'd built a shell around herself because of it, comfortable in her avoidant relationship style. It had saved her heartache and had kept her sane in her foster situations. As an adult, it had grown into hyper-self reliance, something to which she attributed her success in her career field and her ability to stay alive in various situations over the years.

Not until Booth came along did she allow her defenses to come down. It was a slow process, one that took years, and anger began to rise within her now as she pondered the woman she'd become over the last few months. She'd allowed herself, for the first time, to pine for a man. She'd become vulnerable with him. She'd allowed him to see parts of herself that she'd never dared show anyone. She fell in love with him.

And she'd become weaker for it. He was gone – even he had abandoned her, despite his many reassurances over the years that that would never happen. She'd let Booth hurt her, and it ultimately distracted her from her job and clouded her ability to remain rational. It was precisely why she now lay here on the bed, helpless and wounded. In the back of her mind, she supposed she'd still believed that he'd be there. Because of it, she'd become reckless.

No more. It was time to tap into that long-forgotten imperviousness. She'd have to rely on logic and intellect. She would not allow emotion to cloud her decisions. She would not call upon her fictitious "gut" to tell her what to do. It was time to save herself.

**######################**

Candido had remained on the perimeter of the compound, keeping a wide berth from the bodies of his fallen compadres. When Booth, Doggett, and Villarreal returned, he was sitting on the ground, cowering in the lush ground cover, his eyes wide with shock.

"Candido!" Booth clapped his hands, hoping to snap him out of his trance.

Candido continued to stare ahead, eyes unseeing.

Booth squatted in the dirt next to him and waved a hand in front of his eyes. Candido blinked once, then slowly turned his gaze to Booth, noticing his proximity for the first time. He stared at Booth for a second before speaking.

"My brother… That is his body over there." He pointed to a particularly gruesome set of remains about fifty yards from where he sat. A lone buzzard picked at the flesh on the hand of the dead man. He looked back at Booth, his rotund face twisted into a grimace. "I must give him proper burial," he sobbed. "He must have last rites, Catholic funeral."

Booth looked to Doggett and Villarreal for help, and Villarreal took over. "Candido, we'll take your brother back and see to it that he's laid to rest. I promise. But we still need your help. We have to get to a place where we can make a call as quickly as possible. Is there somewhere closer than Leticia?"

Candido sat in silence, and Booth wondered if he'd heard the question.

"Candido?"

His eyes suddenly fixed on Booth. "There is an airstrip. You find it already?"

Booth shook his head.

"I show you. It is hidden. Jacob used it to fly girls in." He stood clumsily and brushed the dirt from his hands. "The bush plane is pro'ly still here. Maybe you can use the radio?"

"Yeah, well, too bad we don't have a pilot," muttered Doggett. They began to pick their way around the edge of the compound single file as Candido led them toward a dense part of the jungle at the back of the clearing.

"Uh, I can fly," came Villarreal's offer from the back of the line. Doggett and Booth stopped and turned, and Villarreal shrugged. "I was an Air Force pilot. Don't currently have a license, but how hard can it be?"

Booth grinned and clapped him on the shoulder. "Alright, there, Indiana Jones. Any more surprises for us?"

Villarreal chuckled. "I'm not going to promise the best flight of your life, but I can sure as hell get us where we need to go."

Booth felt giddy. After too much bad news lately, it was nice to finally feel a little hope. The possibility of a plane opened up many options. Maybe they'd spot something from the air that they'd missed. At the very least, he was looking forward to getting a cell signal. Like it or not, Langley was going to help him find Bones.

Candido disappeared into a small gap in the tangle of vines and trees, and the men followed him through a natural tree tunnel that stretched ahead for several hundred yards. Soon, they were standing in a short, narrow clearing.

"Here is the airstrip," said Candido, sweeping his hand in front of him.

Booth's face reflected his confusion. "Where?"

"This. This clearing is the airstrip."

Doggett and Booth looked at him incredulously. The strip looked barely wide enough for a jeep, and only about fifty feet long.

Doggett snorted. "How the hell is a plane supposed to take off and land in here?"

"It can be done," said Villarreal. "Takes an expert pilot and the right kind of plane, though."

Candido walked to the end of the strip and into the dense trees, only to emerge a few seconds later dragging a large camouflage tarp. He motioned for the men to approach, and when they reached him, he pointed into a small, yellow bush plane that was backed into a small area cut into the trees.

Villarreal gave a low whistle as he put a hand on the underside of the plane's nose. "No way." He ran his hand along the body, admiring the craft. "It's a vintage Piper – a PA-18 Super Cub. Looks like a 1950's model. They don't manufacture these anymore. A buddy of mine made one from a kit last year. They're known for their ability to take off and land at ridiculously short distances."

"I take it you know how to fly this thing?" Doggett asked.

"Yeah, well, it's not rocket science. Pretty basic bush plane. It's the takeoff I'm not so sure about." He disappeared under the left wing to check out the tail.

"Bush plane," repeated Doggett. "This isn't Jacob's plane. He flew a private jet."

Candido spoke up. "Private jets cannot land here. There is another strip where he left his plane. He brought girls here with this or with helicopter. This plane is only for two people."

"Yep," said Villarreal, emerging from under the right wing. "Tandem two-seater. Which means that there's only room for myself and one other person to fly out. Candido will have to ferry one of us back by boat."

Doggett looked at Booth. "You wanna fly the friendly skies with Villarreal? I can head back to Leticia by boat and connect with Angela remotely while you guys do an aerial search. If there's another airstrip, it might be where they've taken Brennan. We can meet up this afternoon, hopefully with more information on how to proceed."

Booth nodded, grateful that Doggett was giving him the opportunity to actively search for Bones. Sitting behind a computer at this point would make him crazy.

"They left a satellite phone in the seat!" called Villarreal, who had already climbed into the cockpit to familiarize himself with the controls. He tossed it down to Doggett, then pointed to Candido. "They keep any extra fuel around here? Tank's pretty low."

Candido nodded and pointed to a shed they had not noticed, nestled deep in the trees. "I will see if there is gas."

Doggett pressed the power button on the phone, and its display came on immediately. "Actually has some battery left," he grinned, waving the phone at Booth. "What say we try and call Langley right now? We can make the call while they get things started here."

Booth nodded, and they headed back to the main compound area, far enough away from the plane to enable them to have a coherent conversation once Villarreal got the plane started.

When they reached the cinderblock building at the center of the compound, Doggett handed Booth the phone, and Booth stepped into the shelter of the doorway and dialed Finley's extension at CIA headquarters. It took a bit of arm-twisting at first for Finley to agree to help, but when Booth mentioned possible terror ties, Finley acquiesced. He agreed to put a few agents on the case, promised to call Booth as soon as he knew anything, and gave Booth the number of an operative in Colombia who might be able to help.

Satisfied, he handed the phone over to Doggett. "You want to call your people?"

"Yeah. I'm going to get Angela on the case. I've learned she can be much faster than the Bureau."

Booth nodded, and a pang of jealousy shot through him at Doggett's inclusion of Angela as "his people." His familiarity with the team bugged the hell out of Booth, but Booth knew that he had no place to feel irritation. Doggett had stepped into his role as Booth's replacement, and was performing it well.

Doggett connected with Angela immediately, and he put the call on speaker. Booth listened as Doggett fielded dozens of anxious questions and patiently recounted what they had uncovered.

"Oh my god, Doggett," Angela gasped. "A terror cell? Why?"

"We think they're holding her as collateral. Booth's people at the CIA are checking into chatter to verify that theory, but so far, we're just guessing. Did you find anything on the flash drive from the aviation company?"

"Nothing that stood out regarding a terrorist organization, but there's several files that are encrypted separately from the others. I'm still working on cracking those, but -"

Suddenly, a massive explosion rocked the ground, and Booth and Doggett hit the dirt as a large ball of fire and black smoke billowed up from behind the trees near the airstrip.

"Shit!" yelled Doggett, and the two men were off and running in an instant, leaving the satellite phone in the dirt, and Angela's panicked screams for someone to tell her what the hell was going on unanswered.

_**A/N: There you are! Send me some review love, and I promise I'll write faster! Love hearing from you guys!**_


	24. Chapter 24

Chapter 24

The jungle surrounding the far end of the airstrip was on fire. Doggett stumbled into the clearing first, with Booth arriving only a breath behind him, and the devastation that lay before them stopped them both cold.

All that was left of the plane was a tangled mess of yellow sheet metal, the heat from the explosion having decimated the rest. Black smoke from the burning tires billowed from the wreckage, blocking the view of the rest of the carnage. It prevented them from venturing any closer, but both men knew it was pointless – no one could have survived a fireball so intense.

Booth cursed and swiped at a nearby tree in anger. Doggett stood in silence, the muscles in his jaw working overtime as he processed the scene.

"The plane was booby trapped." Doggett's voice was low and intense. "Thing is, I didn't hear Villarreal start it – what set off the explosion?"

Booth tore a piece of vine from a nearby tree and wound it around his hand unconsciously as he stared into the smoke. "Static? A spark from the battery near the gas cans?" he said. "Whatever caused it, El Lobo's cleanup crew made sure that all their bases were covered."

Doggett nodded tacitly, still staring into the smoke. It had begun to rain again, turning the black smoke white as the huge drops pelted the wreckage, inefficiently extinguishing the flames.

Booth glimpsed a mangled leg on the ground through the smoke and instantly felt sick. The clothing told him it was Villarreal's, and it was at least thirty feet from the wreckage of the plane.

He swallowed down the rising bile. "We'd…better call the operative Finley told me about. We're going to have to see if they can send a chopper for us – otherwise, we're stuck with Candido's boat."

Doggett turned and headed back towards the compound, and Booth followed. He knew what Doggett was feeling. He felt it too, but his anger was mixed with rising panic at the thought of how much time they were wasting. He hoped and prayed it wasn't too late for Bones.

The sat phone lay in the mud near the cinderblock building where Doggett had dropped it, and Booth cursed, rushing to rescue it from the downpour. He snatched it up and tried to dial as they ducked into the shelter of the building. Confusion crossed his face when the phone was unresponsive. Suddenly, Angela's voice came across the speaker.

"Um, hello? Booth? Doggett? You guys there?"

Doggett looked at Booth with wide eyes. "Yeah, Angela. Plane got blown up. We lost the two men who were with us."

"Thank God you guys are all right," Angela exhaled. "I heard the explosion and thought…"

"Angela," Booth interrupted, nearly shouting over the increasingly loud cadence of the rain outside, "we're running out of juice on the sat phone and need to call in some help here. Can you locate our position?"

"Sure. Give me a sec." They heard the faint tapping of her keyboard as she ran the trace. "It'll take a few minutes. What do you want me to do when it's finished?"

"Look on your fancy computer maps and see if you can find anything nearby that resembles an airstrip. We're looking for a private jet, so it has to be somewhere not too rugged. Also, if you don't hear from an Agent Finley from the CIA within thirty minutes or so, call him and give him our coordinates. If the battery on this phone dies, I need you to be my backup in getting word to him."

She gave them the coordinates, and Doggett copied them down in his now-soggy notepad. "Let me know what else I can do, okay? And - you guys? Be careful. This case is getting creepier by the minute."

They signed off, and Booth quickly dialed Finley.

"Booth! I was just about to call you back. This Colombian development is bigger than we thought. In fact, had I known that it tied right into your case here, I'd have sent you down there myself."

"What are you talking about?"

"We couldn't figure out why Yasir al-Qadhi had disappeared off the radar so suddenly, but all chatter surrounding him stopped this week. Unusual, considering the upcoming CUFI rally and his rumored involvement in the terror plot that's connected to it." Finley paused, and Booth heard him exhale loudly on the other end of the phone, as if he was bracing himself for what he was about to say. "The chatter started coming through again today. We intercepted a message from one of al-Qadhi's right hand guys, and it referred to a well-known American scientist they had captured. There was no mention of who or where, but I'd stake my life on the possibility that your El Lobo and al-Qadhi are one and the same."

Booth's heart sank. How the hell had Bones gotten involved in this mess? He fingered the dolphin ring in his pocket, and suddenly ached for the hand to which it belonged.

"Finley, we need to get out of the weeds here. Can you arrange for a chopper? We need to get above the trees to see if we can find another airstrip nearby, and we need to get back to civilization so we can work. Our guide was killed, along with our FBI contact here, and we're sort of running blind right now."

"Got it. I'll send support right now. And I'll see if our spysat guys can pull anything from the satellite images in the area from the last twenty-four hours. We may get lucky and see something."

The phone beeped in Booth's hand, warning that it was nearing the end of its battery life.

"Losing juice, Finley. How long before that chopper can get here?"

"The U.S. Military has a cooperative agreement with Colombian air bases. There's one west of Bogata that has search and rescue capabilities. Give me your coordinates; I'd say within the next couple hours, if I play my cards right."

Booth gave him their location and then powered down the phone to reserve what little battery life was left.

There was nothing to do now but wait. Silence followed as the two men stood in the doorway and stared out onto the rain-soaked compound. The oversized raindrops slapped the muddy ground and formed small streams that flowed into the trees, carrying debris and the blood of the dead off into the jungle.

**######################**

Brennan was sitting on the edge of the bed when Arib returned. When he saw her, his eyebrows shot up in surprise, and he began to scold her in Arabic as he rushed to her side and quickly checked her bandages and her IV line.

She felt stronger. She was not sure whether her newfound resolve had hastened her recovery, or if it was the steady stream of pharmaceuticals to her system. She still felt excruciating pain in her shoulder, arm, and down the right side of her body, and it had been a struggle to sit up, but she could tell that her body was healing, and the tortuous fever was gone.

She watched as Arib gingerly pulled the bandage away, and she was shocked to see her wound for the first time. A gaping wound covered most of her shoulder; it had been crudely stitched closed and was now seeping water and blood. She knew that she was looking at the exit wound; she could not imagine how her back looked where the bullet had entered. She knew that the projectile had penetrated her scapula – she could tell by the deflated appearance of her shoulder that a scapular fracture had occurred. Recovery would be long – that is, if she managed to escape her current situation. She was in no shape to fight at the moment.

Arib gently cleaned her wound and replaced her bandages. He disconnected the IV line from her arm and placed a bandage on her vein. When he finished, he sat back on his heels and looked at her thoughtfully.

"Since you are better, I think we will take a short walk. Exercise will help you."

It was the first time she'd heard him speak English, and the familiarity of her own language brought strange comfort. A warning nagged within, and she reminded herself that he was not an ally, despite his momentary attention to her needs. However, she nodded her assent, eager to get out of confines of the room, if only for a few minutes. He stood and helped her to her feet. She was amazed at his careful attention to her wounds, his attempts to keep from hurting her. If he weren't her enemy, she'd swear he had her best interest in mind.

Her legs were wobbly, and she cried out in pain as gravity and loss of balance wrought havoc on her injuries. She was stiff from lying in the same position for so long, and she felt lightheaded at the sudden change in position. Arib held her by her uninjured elbow to steady her, then guided her towards the door slowly when she was ready, her feet shuffling in short, jerky steps. It was painstaking, and by the time they reached the door, she was panting from exhaustion.

"We will stop here and rest. You are doing a good job." He almost smiled at her then, and it took her off guard.

"Why are you being nice to me?" she asked, wincing from the pain.

He did not answer, but continued to hold her by the elbow until she caught her breath.

"Now we go farther. Just to the end of the hall. Can you do that?"

She took a deep breath and nodded, and she bravely put one foot in front of the other, leaning on him for support when the boat pitched slightly. The walk was excruciating, their progress slow, but determination drove her, and when she finally reached the goal he had set for her, she wept.

He carefully guided her onto an ornate bench and allowed her to rest, looking away as she composed herself and hastily wiped the tears from her face. She gazed down the passageway, past the door of her prison-bedroom, and noted the golden sunlight shining on the curved stairwell at the end of the hall. She could not tell if it was sunrise or sunset, but the glimpse of daylight bolstered her spirits.

"What day is it?"

"It is Wednesday. Tomorrow we travel. You must get your strength back."

"Where are we going?"

He didn't answer. Instead, he pulled out a radio handset, depressed the call button, and spoke softly in Arabic. He was answered by a brief burst of static, followed by a curt acknowledgement from a deeper Arabic voice. Seconds later, a door not far from where Brennan sat swung open, and her nameless captor appeared.

"Dr. Brennan. It is good to see that you have some of your strength back." He stepped into the hall and stood before her, looking at her intently to assess her condition. "I will not make you walk back to your room just yet – I know it is a tiresome task, given your injuries. Please, come into my office. Arib, I've just received an interesting communication that I think you might be interested in seeing."

Despite Arib's care in helping her to her feet, she nearly lost her balance and cried out in pain as the boat pitched suddenly to the left. The men watched patiently as she composed herself, and then her host stepped aside to allow Arib to guide her on the painstaking walk to the office just a few meters down the hall.

His office was expansive, spanning the entire length of the second floor of the boat. The décor was modern and sleek, a stark contrast to the gaudy living spaces Brennan had seen. Large picture windows lined the outer wall, and Brennan thought she saw mountains over the trees. The terrain had definitely changed in the last twenty-four hours, and she imagined that they had indeed headed north toward the mountainous region of the country.

The wall at the far end of the room was flanked with large monitors and state-of-the-art computer equipment reminiscent of Angela's office. Brennan saw alternating shots of the boat's exterior as a security monitor looped a feed from outside cameras, and she spotted more than a few armed guards in each shot. Security had certainly been stepped up.

Arib led her to a couch opposite the large glass desk in the center of the room and helped her sit. She watched as her captor flipped on one of the large flat screens on the wall and turned to address Arib.

"Your efforts to ensure that we were not followed were successful," he said, a satisfied smile on his lips. "Well done, brother. You'll be pleased to see what your team accomplished."

He shuttled through frame after frame of video footage, and despite the images flying by in rapid succession, Brennan recognized the Montoya compound – what was left of it, anyway – almost immediately.

"I took great care to ensure that there were none left," said Arib as he watched the gruesome images which displayed the results of his operation.

"Your efforts continue to pay off," said the man, nodding to the screen as he punched a button to play the grainy footage in real time. "We were able to tap into the cartel's security feed. Watch."

Brennan was shocked when she saw the state of the compound. She spotted at least eight bodies within the camera's view, and noted that there were now piles of burnt rubble where the small outbuildings had once stood.

Suddenly, four blurry figures emerged from the trees at the left edge of the frame, and she watched as one of them sat as the other three continued towards the center of the compound, their forms growing larger as they approached the camera. She could not make out their faces, but when one of them knelt next to a set of remains, her heart seized. She knew that form almost as well as she knew her own. The way he shook his head in defeat, the way he brushed his hands against his knees as he stood again – she'd seen those mannerisms a thousand times. It was Booth. He'd come for her.

Her heart pounded as if about to explode, and the edges of her vision went blurry. She felt lightheaded, and she forced herself to breathe deeply. It was the first time she'd seen him in nearly two months, and here he was, in Colombia.

She blinked away the tears, gritting her teeth and willing herself to show no emotion. Booth passed out of the frame, and the man behind him turned and looked almost directly into the camera – Doggett had come, too. She remained stone-faced even as hope rose within her. She refused to give any indication to her captors that she knew these men, or that they were looking for her.

"Who are they?" asked Arib.

"One is a cartel member. The other three are Americans." He shuttled through the footage again, stopping when a larger image of Booth from another camera flashed onto the screen. He froze the picture, and Brennan could clearly see Booth's face. Gone was the broken, haggard man she'd last seen on the street so many weeks ago. The determined expression that she knew so well was back. _Booth_ was back.

"This one is CIA, and especially interesting to me for two reasons," he said. "First, he is newly assigned to the task of infiltrating our operation. He has met with several of our lesser operatives and has uncovered some things that could well destroy our objective next week. But, coincidentally, he is also Dr. Brennan's former partner, a trained Army sniper, and has quite a formidable reputation." He flashed his eyes at Brennan and smirked at her darkly.

She couldn't read his expression, but sick dread rose within her. She cast it aside and willed strength into her voice. "How do you know about me? Why are you going to all of this trouble? I'm not worth the effort – I'm a scientist."

"You are collateral, Dr. Brennan. I happen to know that you are one of the FBI's most valuable assets, and together, you and Agent Booth are quite a team. We are merely taking advantage of an opportunity."

"Which is what, exactly? The FBI will not negotiate with terrorists, which I surmise you to be."

"We have a list of demands. If our demands are not met, the United States will experience the wrath of Allah. Your death will only add to the impact of the event we already had planned, especially when it follows the news of Agent Booth's demise."

She held her breath as he forwarded the footage to a scene from another camera, this time showing the four men standing around a small airplane, talking excitedly amongst themselves. The footage scrolled quickly ahead, and then stopped, and Brennan watched in horror as an immense fireball filled the screen. A lifeless body she could not identify was flung violently to the ground, and then the screen went black.

"No!" screamed Brennan, and without thinking, she launched herself to her feet, but the searing pain from her wounded shoulder sent her hurtling to the floor, and she wailed as the memory of Booth's face hovered in her mind. Arib was at her side in seconds, and he held her down firmly as she clawed at him, gasping for air as if she was drowning, unable to distinguish between the physical pain and the agony in her spirit that threatened to swallow her whole.

She passed out momentarily, and she came to as they were carrying her back to her room. She heard a sob escape from her throat, and she felt oddly detached from her body as they laid her on the bed and spoke in hushed tones over her. She closed her eyes, willing the men away, and she felt the warmth of tears on her face.

She did not open her eyes again until they exited the room, switching off the light just before they locked her into her prison, with nothing but the darkness and the images of Booth's death to occupy her mind.


	25. Chapter 25

_Tap…tap… Is this thing on? Hi everyone! *__**Waves frantically**__* Remember me? Is anyone still here? I am SO SORRY for the long delay… got a promotion at my job, and my new schedule has taken some time to get used to. I'm finally coming up for air and have finally figured out how to carve some time out for writing, so there you go. _

_We're about ¾ of the way through here, so know that things will start coming together and picking up in the next few chapters! _

Chapter 25

It was nearly nightfall by the time the helicopter landed on the narrow airstrip. The compound was awash in haze as the heat from the ground met the cool air of dusk, shrouding the place in an eerie cloak of steam. Booth and Doggett were none too happy to climb into the helicopter, and were downright elated when the pilot and copilot greeted them warmly with American accents.

The two agents strapped in and pulled their headsets on, and almost immediately, the craft was rising above the trees and banking east. Booth looked through the open door at the ground below, the large, muddy river now a brown ribbon that snaked through the jungle.

"Captain Joe Rodriguez, sirs," came the copilot's voice over their headsets, "And that's Major George Dixon. We've been ordered to take you back to Apiay Airbase. There's a dedicated team working on your case right now – orders straight from the Pentagon – and they've got a few leads to brief you on."

Booth looked at Doggett, then leaned forward to address the copilot, panic and impatience creeping into his voice. "Captain, I was hoping you guys would have brought that information with you. We're losing precious time here…"

"Yeah, I get it, sir, but it's almost dark, and without specific coordinates, we'd be flying blind. We'll be there in an hour and a half. The good news is that they're working nonstop at the base, and hopefully we'll be ready to launch a full-out rescue operation before dawn. Besides, with all due respect, you guys look like you could use some rest."

Booth sat back in his seat, resigned. He knew the Captain was right, of course: trying to find Bones by circling around the area in a helicopter was irrational and ridiculous, but it pained him to know that they were most likely traveling further from where she was being held. Their stay at the base would give her captors even more of a head start.

He felt Doggett's eyes on him and bristled. He was too tired to talk about anything, so he closed his eyes and leaned his head into the headrest. Within minutes, he was dozing.

An hour later, Rodriguez's voice came over the headset once again. "Sirs, we are nearing Villavicencio. The base is about ten minutes out."

Booth stretched and looked up to see Doggett shaking the last vestiges of sleep from his head.

"You sleep?" Doggett asked.

"Yeah, sort of," replied Booth. "Crazy dreams."

"Yeah. I know I'll be glad to get on the ground, get some work done, you know?"

Booth grunted and looked through the gaping door at the lights of Villavicencio seven hundred feet below. The city looked to be a fairly large, densely populated area, larger than he'd expected.

"You guys live here on base?" Doggett asked.

"Yeah, we've both been here a year. We're here on assignment – mainly helping put cartels and weapons dealers out of business. We're quite familiar with the Montoya cartel. Can't believe someone took them out. Can't say I'm heartbroken over that."

"Sounds like the people who got them are worse than the cartel," said Doggett. "You know anything about Yasir al-Qadhi and his organization?"

"Can't say I do. I've heard rumors of terrorist groups funding the cartels, but I usually don't do much with intel. We just fly in, let Special Ops do their job, and get out."

Doggett nodded, and the agents held on as the helicopter banked suddenly. Booth, glad for the safety of the harness that held him firmly in his seat, watched the ground grow rapidly closer as they neared their destination.

Within seconds, the craft touched down, and Doggett and Booth wasted no time in tearing themselves from their restraints and jumping onto the tarmac. Once out of the reach of the rotors, they waited briefly next to a jeep as Rodriguez and Dixon completed their duties.

A few minutes later, the two pilots rejoined them, and Dixon nodded towards the jeep. "Get in. We'll take you to Intelligence. Staff Sergeant Day is waiting to brief you."

The base was awash in yellow light from large sodium vapor lights regularly spaced at the top of the buildings. As they drove past several small barracks, Booth wondered how its occupants managed to sleep with the near-daylight outside.

The night air was dry and cool, evidence of their higher elevation and their proximity to the mountains, and by the time they reached the small adobe building that served as the command center for the United States Air Force, Booth and Doggett were both chilled to the bone. The four men spilled out of the jeep, and Dixon and Rodriguez led the way into the building.

The main room buzzed with significant activity as a small team, obviously set up for a long night, hunched over their computers and shared information as they gathered it. Booth watched from the doorway, comforted by the fact that Finley had pulled some strings to get this many people on the task to find Bones. Across the room, a serious-looking man looked up from the terminal he was bent over, and when he spotted the four men in the doorway, he straightened and strode to them with his hand outstretched.

"Staff Sergeant Daniel Day," he introduced himself with a weary smile. "I take it you guys are the CIA agents we'll be working for?"

"Special Agent John Doggett – I'm FBI – and this here's Agent Seeley Booth with the CIA." Doggett shook his hand firmly. "You guys find anything promising?"

Day palmed the back of his neck. "Yes, sir. I've got most of the data being sent to my screen in the conference room. If you'll follow me, I'll show you what we've found."

With that, Rodriguez and Dixon excused themselves and exited the building, and Doggett and Booth followed Day to the back of the office and into a small conference room with archaic décor. Motioning for them to sit in the avocado-green vinyl chairs, Day rounded the conference table and moved an overhead projector from its spot at the front of the room. He replaced it with a small projector, and made quick work of connecting the VGA to his Mac, the only modern devices in the room. 

"Sorry, gentlemen," he muttered as he worked. "This building is the best they could give us. We got the orders from the Pentagon, and rather than wait several hours for something else to get approved, we figured it would be best to take what was available."

He picked up a remote control and turned on the projector, and soon images from Day's desktop appeared on the dingy screen on the wall.

"Okay. Here's what we've got," said Day, clicking open a window to reveal several satellite images. Booth instantly recognized the Montoya compound nestled among overhead shots of the dense jungle.

"We've got a drone that monitors the remote areas of the jungle, sort of keeping tabs on all the cartel hotspots. These were taken on Monday evening, obviously before the attack." He zoomed in to reveal a closer view of the buildings of the compound, giving them a virtual tour of the cartel's operation. "As you can see, the place was pretty full." He clicked to another image. "These images are also from Monday evening," he explained, and dragged the photo to bring the airstrip into frame. A helicopter rested in the middle of the strip. "We assume this is the craft your partner was transported in on. Must have been hired out since you guys didn't find it there today. We're tracing the tail numbers now to see where it came from and who it belongs to."

"I knew that bush plane couldn't have been Jacob's method of transport," said Doggett. "Just didn't feel right."

Day clicked to the next image. "This," he said grimly, "is from Tuesday evening." Doggett and Booth studied the photo of the compound, now shrouded by thick, black plumes of smoke. From the satellite image, it looked as if the place had been bombed, such was the scope of destruction.

Doggett let out a low whistle. "That's one hell of a fire. How did it not spread?"

"It rained all night Tuesday," Day said. "Rainy season is here…"

"Any other pictures? Did you see Bones anywhere?" asked Booth abruptly. "I mean, we were there. We've seen all this."

Day and Doggett both looked at him sympathetically, their pity irritating him. Day shook his head.

"We don't have images between the two evening passes. Had we known something was going down, we could have dedicated the drone to watching the compound exclusively. However, it did pick up something interesting about sixty miles upriver." He clicked on another image and zoomed in, revealing an elaborately appointed houseboat moored to the riverbank.

"Okay, looks a little out of place," said Doggett, "but we saw houseboats all over Leticia for hire. I assume there's something special about this one?"

Without a word, Day clicked a few times more, zooming in to reveal an extremely clear closeup of the boat and its surroundings. He stood and pointed to the upper left hand portion of the picture. Doggett and Booth immediately spotted the object of interest on the boat's deck: a man in paramilitary dress stood at attention just outside one of the boat's cabin doors. "I don't know many tourists who have armed guards on their houseboats. That guy's carrying an M4. Those are big on the black market among the cartels here. And here's something else."

He pointed to a jeep that was parked on the riverbank. "See this? This was taken around eight in the evening Tuesday." He switched back to the morning shots of the compound. "This same jeep is seen in the pictures from the compound taken earlier that morning." He brought the two shots side-by-side on the screen to show the agents.

"Where's the boat now?" Booth asked, his heart racing.

"The latest pictures we have are from Wednesday morning, and as of then, the boat's gone. The drone doesn't venture much farther north, but I think we can assume that's where they were headed."

"Sir?"

The three men turned towards the voice at the door. At Day's acknowledgement, a young Staff Sergeant entered and handed him a printout.

"Sir, we've found the helicopter. It's located at a private airstrip in Solano. There's a charter plane registered to a private aviation company out of D.C. in the photo as well."

"When were these taken?" Day queried.

"A few hours ago. There are no signs of life at the airstrip, but the river is nearby…"

"Is there a drone anywhere near that location?" Booth asked.

The Staff Sergeant grunted. "The only one available would be the one over the jungle…"

"Send it up to Solano, Meyers. We need to find that houseboat."

"Yes, sir." The man snapped a quick salute and turned on his heel to carry out the command.

Day stood and stretched. "Looks like you guys aren't going to get much sleep tonight. Why don't I have someone show you to your room – you can rest a bit while we finish up here. As soon as we track down the boat and confirm where they're headed, we'll be ready to move. We'll have a Special Ops team ready ASAP. I want to get boots on the ground before daylight."

Booth stood painfully, his back stiff from long hours and the uncomfortable chair. Exhaustion had begun to overshadow the adrenaline that had been coursing through him for the last twenty-four hours. He knew there was no way he was going to sleep – no way in hell, not with Bones still out there - but he was desperate for a hot shower to relax the knots that were forming.

A young airman led them to a nearby building and showed them to a modest hotel-style room. After unlocking the door, he left briefly, then returned with a change of clothes, towels, and toiletries for each of them. Doggett thanked him, shut the door, and immediately stretched out wearily on one of the twin beds.

"You take the bathroom first. I'm gonna try to sleep for a bit."

Booth mumbled a thanks and headed straight for the small bathroom, and he wasted no time stripping off his filthy clothes and stepping into the hot spray. The scalding water pounded his back like liquid fire, and he winced at the initial pain, accepting it like punishment, grateful once he felt the knots in his neck and back begin to relax.

A few minutes later, he stepped from the shower a new man, and he hastily dried off, dressed, and returned to the room, where Doggett was sleeping fitfully. Booth tiptoed past, laid his dirty clothes on the dresser, and emptied the pockets of his jeans – cell phone, wallet, poker chip… and Bones' dolphin ring. His throat tightened as he fingered the cool silver, and his eyes burned as he flopped into the nearby recliner and clutched the ring in his fist.

"Dammit, Bones…" he muttered. It was just like her to get herself in trouble like this. He knew her so well – knew that if she was still alive, she was probably approaching her situation with hyper-rationalism and detachment. Her fucking logic always trumped good sense, and the mere thought scared the hell out of him. It meant that she'd do whatever she deemed "logical" to survive, and there was no telling what sort of position she'd put herself in as a result.

Over the years she'd become more careful, allowing him to do the heavy lifting when it came to catching the bad guys, and trusting his judgment when it came to her safety. It had, unfortunately, taken a few close calls to convince her that she was not invincible, but she still put herself out there more than he was comfortable with.

Although, if he was honest with himself, his devotion to her safety had been somewhat distracted by his relationship with Hannah. Hell, he'd allowed Hannah to distract him from everything – he'd needed that distraction. It was his very motive for seeking her out after he rescued her in Afghanistan. He'd clung to her as if his very life depended on it. He'd used her out of his frantic need to erase Bones from his DNA. And in doing so, he'd not only lost Bones, but he'd lost Hannah – and then he'd lost himself.

"Fucking asshole," he muttered. He had to redeem himself from the shameful way he'd acted. He had to set things right with Bones, and whether she forgave him or not, he'd die trying.

**####################**

A soft but urgent knock rousted the dozing agents, and Doggett rolled painfully off his bed and staggered to the door. He rubbed a hand over his face as he pulled the door open to reveal Staff Sergeant Day.

"Found the boat. It's docked just outside of Solano – just got the data back from the drone a few minutes ago. It'll take us an hour in the air. We leave in twenty minutes."

He turned on his heel and disappeared, and the agents, now fully awake, gathered their things and hurried after him.

"What time is it?" asked Booth as they jogged down the hall.

Doggett checked his watch. "Just after three. We'll have to hurry the hell up if we plan on making it to Solano before daybreak."

They pushed through the doors of the conference room and stood against the back wall as Day took his place at the front of the room. Twenty men were crowded into the small room, all of them Special Ops, and the room buzzed with anticipation as they readied themselves for action.

Day briefly instructed them on the plan: a team of ten, plus Doggett and Booth, would converge on the boat and remove Brennan, taking great pains to capture Al-Qadhi and his men alive. The other half of the team would be inserted at the airstrip, seizing the plane and the helicopter used by the cartel.

After running through the operation in detail, Day paused and looked at his team with intensity.

"I don't have to tell you guys how important it is that we take every person on board alive. This is a very delicate operation. We've got a well-known American citizen being held by a terrorist group who has the means to inflict pretty substantial damage. There are a lot of ways that this could go wrong. In their minds, dedication to the cause outweighs the need for self-preservation, so they will fight to the death. You'd better be ready to do the same. Just make sure that Dr. Temperance Brennan makes it out alive. Our agents back there will kill you themselves if anything happens to her."

With that, they were dismissed, and in minutes, Booth and Doggett found themselves strapped in to the chopper and in the air. Booth looked at the faces of the men on board, grateful to have the world's best backup team, and hopeful that, within the next few hours, he'd have his Bones back.

_Okay, well, if anyone's still reading this (grins sheepishly) drop me a line in the reviews! Reviews will spur me on…I have the next chapter started, so I PROMISE the next update will be soon!_


	26. Chapter 26

Chapter 26

The moon hung low and large over the river and cast an eerie light on the grounds of the coffee plantation that stretched before them. The insertion point was less than ideal – the trek to the houseboat through the vast coffee crops would take nearly an hour on foot, but it was far enough away from the river that any noise from the helicopter would blend into Solano's normal air traffic sounds.

Booth, Doggett, and their team of ten made their way through the rows of coffee trees without sound. The orchard was dense and tall, void of landmarks, and the inability to see past the trees surrounding them made the experience similar to that of trudging through a cornfield. Doggett monitored the GPS, constantly course-correcting the group, until they finally pushed through the last of the coffee trees into a grassy plain, and found themselves suddenly facing the river.

Two hundred yards to their left loomed the houseboat, bobbing silently at the river's edge, shrouded in total darkness. Booth was struck by the enormity of the craft. The distance and the waning moonlight put him at a disadvantage, but he sized up its sleek, modern exterior as best he could: two levels of living quarters, both with enormous decks at the fore, a narrow deck which wrapped around the bottom level, and a large, flat deck on the top. Unlike typical houseboats, however, the lower deck was not flush with the waterline, but elevated at least twenty feet. Booth could see the outline of state-of-the-art satellite equipment on the roof of the main cabin. The vessel looked more like a miniature cruise ship than a boat fit for a river with unpredictable shallows and narrow bends.

Booth's heart pounded in his throat as his adrenaline levels spiked. The knowledge that Bones – and the second most wanted terrorist in the world - was finally within reach made self-control nearly impossible, and it took every ounce of willpower to keep from taking off in a full on sprint and single-handedly storming the place. His hands twitched at the thought of inflicting severe injury on the boat's occupants; blood thirst had never been part of his nature, but this was different, because this was about _her_.

Doggett sensed his impatience and placed a firm hand on Booth's shoulder.

"Ready, boss?"

Booth tensed and glanced behind him. The team was poised for action and awaiting his lead. He nodded and gripped his newly issued M-16, dropped to a low crouch, and took off towards the boat, the men at his heels. They moved quickly as one, the risk of exposure imminent on the open banks of the river. They kept close to the ground, using the cover of the tall river grass as much as possible to avoid the moonlight. Minutes later, they ducked under the shelter of the massive prow.

With lightning speed, two of the men raced to the stern, and Booth watched as they quickly scaled the massive hull and disappeared over the side and onto the first deck.

Booth held his breath and listened, straining to hear indicators of a struggle above. An eternity passed with nothing but the sound of his own adrenaline-fueled heartbeat in his ears, and he began to grow anxious. Finally, he heard the muffled report of a silenced weapon, followed by another, and soon a small rope ladder was dropped down the bow in front of him.

Booth scrambled up to the deck first and took cover behind a large utility box, where one of the soldiers was crouched, waiting for him. The man pointed to the deck above and held up two fingers, indicating the presence of two hostiles directly overhead. Booth nodded and watched as Doggett and the remaining men appeared. Then, at Booth's signal, the team scattered like cockroaches into the darkness to secure the exterior of the boat.

Booth and Doggett took the starboard side and immediately came upon a set of French doors. Booth was pleased to find it unlocked, and he crept in with Doggett close behind, sweeping the dark room with his gun.

"_Clear!"_ he whispered into his headset, and the pair picked their way through the room, careful to avoid the heavy furniture that crowded the space. Without a sound, they made their way through the darkness towards the foyer.

He crept across the tile, avoiding the glare of the moonlight on the slick marble floor. He made the painstaking trek across the foyer, moving cautiously, willing his war-ravaged joints to remain silent.

As he approached the large, curved staircase, a near-imperceptible sound from above stopped Booth in his tracks. He flattened himself against the wall just under the stairway and held up a hand. Doggett, a few paces behind, ducked into the doorway of the living room and aimed for the top of the stairway, his trigger finger ready.

Booth held his breath and listened. The room was silent, but he sensed the presence of at the top of the stairs - someone who, like him, was listening, waiting. Minutes passed in their silent standoff, and Booth fought against the urge to rationalize away the sound, to rush the stairs with guns blazing. He was familiar with the psychology of combat - whoever broke first was the one who ended up dead. Booth was a sniper; he could wait for hours.

A wave lifted the boat suddenly, tilting them at an awkward angle and causing some small object to roll off the table in the center of the foyer. It hit the tile with a soft _thunk_, and Booth winced and braced for the inevitable chain reaction he knew was coming.

Suddenly, a barrage of automatic gunfire from above shattered the silence in the room. Booth and Doggett hit the floor, assaulted by chunks of marble tile that flew up at them as the shells rained down. Booth dove under a nearby console table against the wall and looked up in time to see Doggett disappear around the corner into the living room.

A brief moment of silence followed as the shooter paused to get his bearings, then Booth heard footsteps on the stairs as their assailant moved further down into the foyer. The shooter paused, then the gunfire erupted once again. The onslaught of shells sliced into the walls and shredded the table above Booth's head. Booth assumed a duck-and-cover position and held on for dear life. He was pinned.

The noise from within the boat raised an alarm outside, and immediately the upper decks were filled with the deafening reports of a fierce firefight. Booth could hear shouting in Arabic as Al-Qadhi's men hastily organized their defense. The Special Ops force answered with measured fire from their own weapons, making quick work of the small security force.

Inside, the shooting had stopped once again, and Booth could now see the outline of the shooter's head as he cautiously made his way down the stairs. Unable to get a clear shot from under the table, he glanced across the foyer and spotted Doggett crouched in wait just inside the living room.

Once the man rounded the curve of the stairway, he was in full view of Doggett's weapon, and Doggett responded with a single shot to the shoulder, dropping the man instantly. Booth rushed from his cover and was on the stairs in seconds, gun jabbed into the man's temple.

The man groaned, and Booth, satisfied that he had been appropriately subdued, quickly bound his hands with zip ties as Doggett covered.

"Where is she?" Booth growled.

The man glared at Booth but remained silent. Booth felt his blood pressure rising and grabbed the man by his shirt, jerking him to his feet.

"Where is the American woman?" Booth spat. The man said nothing, but Booth caught the slight shift of his eyes towards the hallway upstairs. He pushed the man, then planted a foot in his chest, knocking him the rest of the way down the stairs.

Taking the stairs two at a time, Booth and Doggett raced upward into the yawning black hallway, and Booth kicked in the first door he found, splintering it with one blow. Gun first, he lunged into the room and quickly scanned the empty bedroom.

"Nothing! Go!" he yelled as he raced back into the hall.

Doggett was already poised at the next door, waiting for Booth to cover him. He mimicked Booth's actions, taking out the door with ease, and they rushed in to find another empty room that had apparently served as a makeshift hospital room. Booth glanced around quickly. An IV tree sat in the corner, medical supplies rested on the dresser, and soiled bandages and linens red with blood lay on the floor. His knees weakened at the notion that Bones could easily have been the patient.

"Booth!"

Doggett's voice from the hallway brought him back to the present, and he was suddenly aware of the beating of helicopter rotors overhead. He raced after Doggett, who had disappeared through an open doorway at the end of the hall.

In seconds, Booth hit the threshold. A ladder led up to the uppermost deck, and Doggett was already halfway up. Booth scrambled after him, waiting impatiently as Doggett climbed to the surface above.

Doggett was already running towards the helicopter by the time Booth climbed out onto the deck. The craft's skids had barely touched down when Booth spotted the silhouette of a man emerge from the shadows and, helped by the chopper's occupants, push a limp figure into the cabin.

Doggett was shouting at him, but Booth was too intent on the helicopter to hear what he was saying. He raced ahead, focused on the shadow-people inside the craft, and caught up to Doggett just as the skids began to lift off the deck.

"It's her! I saw her!" Doggett yelled as they neared the craft.

Booth increased his pace as the chopper rose higher, the downdraft whipping the air around him and nearly knocking him over. Suddenly, the wind whipped through the cabin of the craft, and Booth caught a glimpse of long, auburn hair. And then the helicopter turned slightly, and in the glow of the light within, he saw her face. She was slumped forward in her seatbelt, chin on her chest, either injured or drugged.

"Bones!" he screamed. The helicopter hung in the air above him, just out of reach, as if to taunt him. Suddenly, a man appeared the open doorway of the passenger cabin with a raised gun and trained a laser sight on Booth's chest, his eyes steely. Booth watched helplessly as the aircraft banked slightly and lifted further out of reach.

"Bones! BONES!"

He was screaming again. He was desperate for her to wake up, to hear him. The craft was still low enough for her to jump - a long shot, but Bones was queen when it came to those. He willed her to open her eyes.

"BONES!"

The man in the chopper kept his sights on Booth, but in his other hand, he held up a small object, waggled it at Booth, and grinned as the aircraft banked away from the boat.

Booth was faintly aware of the crackling voices in his headset. Someone was shouting his name. He ignored it and raised his gun, training it on the man.

"BOOTH!" came the voice in his ear once again.

Booth fired off a round as the helicopter banked suddenly over the river and sped away. He fired again, knowing he would not hit anything, desperate to do something, anything.

His headset crackled again, and suddenly, the words that were being shouted in his ear began to register: _Get out! Explosives!_

A low rumbling began deep within the belly of the vessel, and Booth and Doggett tore across the deck toward the side. The first explosion tore through the predawn air, sending the agents hurtling into space above the river. A massive chain reaction followed, and fiery chunks of metal, wood, and shrapnel rained down as the men hit the water.

Booth swam downward as another concussion sent shockwaves through the water. He clawed at the bottom of the river and fought his way through the black current towards the other side. His lungs screamed in protest, but he dared not surface for fear of more debris and shrapnel. Wreckage from above crashed into the water and floated to the bottom around him, shredding his clothing and skin as he swam blindly to the opposite bank.

Finally the river bottom curved upward, and his head finally broke the surface. Gasping for air, he pulled himself onto the shore and collapsed onto the bank, exhausted.

After regaining his breath, he pushed himself up to look for Doggett. He attempted to stand, but searing pain shot through his leg, and he looked down to see a long, angry gash from his knee to his ankle, blood spurting at an alarming rate. Immediately lightheaded, he fell to the bank and ripped off his shirt to use as a makeshift bandage.

"Doggett!" he called weakly as he tied off the shirt. "John!"

Booth scanned his surroundings, now illuminated by the glow of the still-flaming wreckage on the opposite bank. There was no sign of the agent or any of his men. The helicopter that had carried Bones away was long gone. And there wasn't a damn thing he could do about it.

He had failed.

_**A/N: Okay. I know, I know. You hate me right now, don't you? **_

_**It's okay. I can take it. I have a plan, my friends (albeit an evil one). **_

_**Still a few more twists and turns before we get there… be patient and hang on! Oh, and drop me a line and let me know how much you hate me right now. **___


	27. Chapter 27

_Hi guys! Sorry for the long hiatus! RL has been INSANE lately… but whatever. I have some much-needed writing time scheduled this evening and tomorrow, and I've already got a good chunk of the next chapter written, so my plan is to post again by the end of the weekend._

_I've had several messages encouraging me not to abandon this fic, and I want to reassure you that I have no intention of doing any such thing! I would lose all self-respect if that happened. I need to finish it for my own sense of accomplishment, so no worries! _

Chapter 27

The predawn grey had just begun to turn pink on the edges of the horizon when Booth heard movement in the reeds just south of his position. He pulled his waterlogged pistol from its place on his belt and sat up painfully, wincing as he aimed in the direction of the sound.

"Booth!" Doggett's face appeared through the tall growth, and he rushed to Booth's side, relief etched in his face. "You hurt?" he asked as he knelt.

"Yeah. Can't walk. You?"

Doggett, despite a few scrapes on his face, looked fresh as a daisy.

"Nah, I'm fine," Doggett answered. "Got a little banged up from riding the rapids. I ended up way downriver, and it took me awhile to get my bearings and figure out where the hell I was. Anyone else around?"

Booth shook his head. "Haven't seen anyone yet." He looked away, his jaw set and his gaze intent on the mountains to the north, the direction the chopper had headed.

"Booth. I'm sorry." Doggett's voice cracked, betraying his exhaustion and echoing Booth's emotional state. "She was right _there_…"

Booth didn't answer, but continued to stare at the horizon. A sliver of the sun spilled over one of the mountains, and suddenly the sky was awash in orange. It was beautiful, and it pissed him off. The morning light only meant that too much time had passed; by the time help arrived, they would have little to no chance of tracking the chopper.

Doggett stood and squinted at the opposite bank, assessing the carnage that lay before them. "Not much left of the boat," he said, his voice grim. "And I see at least three – no, make that four – bodies. Can't tell if it's us or them."

Booth pushed himself up further and winced as the pain radiated through him. He struggled to get vertical, and Doggett held out a hand to assist, but Booth waved him off, eventually managing to straighten himself to an awkward standing position on the slope of the riverbank.

Booth scanned the scene that lay before them. All that was left of the houseboat was a tangled mess of wreckage, charred and smoldering on the opposite bank. The area around the boat was strewn with paper, pieces of deck furniture, and bodies; any evidence that might have given them an indication of al-Qadhi's plans had been destroyed.

Images of Bones slumped in that helicopter replayed in his head, and he felt sick to his stomach as the reality of his failure overwhelmed him. In the nearly seven years he'd known her, he'd always been able to save her. This – this was too much to bear.

Doggett suddenly nudged Booth and pointed downriver. "Booth. Look."

Booth glanced down the opposite bank, following Doggett's hand with his eyes. Hidden deep within the trees was a jeep. Relief flooded him as he took in the sight.

"There's a spot downstream a ways that's shallow enough to cross – at least, most of the ways." Doggett looked at Booth's leg, his face showing concern. "Think you can make it with help?"

"Yeah." Booth took a few practice steps in the direction of the jeep. He grunted as the pain threatened to overcome him, but he pushed through it, his jaw set. It was slow going, and he nearly collapsed a few times. Doggett followed close behind, ready to assist, but Booth held out an arm in refusal.

"You're a stubborn s.o.b., you know that?" Doggett said.

"I just don't feel like holding your hand, John," came Booth's answer through teeth clenched in pain. "Just – want to get – Bones…"

"Wonder how things went at the airstrip? They could've caught up with them there." Doggett was clearly trying to assuage his fears.

"Wrong direction," grunted Booth. "Airstrip is west. Chopper headed north."

They trudged through the weeds in silence then, neither one willing to entertain the possible scenarios involving Brennan – all of which were grim.

A trek that would have taken fifteen minutes stretched into nearly an hour. Booth was in excruciating pain and required frequent breaks. In the end, he had to accept Doggett's assistance when the terrain became too rough to manage on his own. When they finally reached the crossing, Booth exhaled a lungful of breath he'd been holding for too long and dropped stiffly to the dirt.

"Go without me." His face was twisted in pain, and he ground his teeth to stave off the waves of nausea.

"Booth…"

"Go. It'll be faster…"

"Booth, I get that we need to expedite this process, but I'm not leaving you here. You're close to shock."

"Then you'll have to hurry. We can't afford to wait around. If they take Bones out of the country…"

His words were interrupted by the sound of helicopter approaching from the east. Doggett shot to his feet and squinted against the glare of sunlight, waiting for the chopper to come into full view.

"Friend or foe?" muttered Booth.

Doggett strained to make out the markings on the craft, a feat that proved impossible due to the angle of approach and the brilliant morning sun. Booth instinctively pulled his weapon, which was futile at best, but one that helped to lessen his feeling of vulnerability as they watched the helicopter loom closer.

The chopper was nearly overhead before they spotted the American flag on its belly, and both men breathed a sigh of relief as they watched it maneuver to a clearing not far from them and touch down softly on the grass.

Doggett helped Booth to his feet as a figure in a flight suit emerged from the craft and jogged toward them, staying low to avoid the rotors.

"It's Rodriguez," Doggett grinned, the relief in his voice palpable as he helped Booth up the bank. "Thank God… I'm gonna buy that guy a beer when this is all over…" Suddenly, he found himself struggling under Booth's frame, which had become dead weight and was threatening to send them tumbling down the riverbank. Doggett grunted and braced himself to regain his balance, skillfully easing the now-unconscious man to the ground. He disentangled himself from Booth's arm, which was still draped around his shoulder, and then crouched in the dirt next to him to catch his breath.

A few seconds later, Doggett heard approaching footsteps, and he glanced over his shoulder to see Rodriguez standing over them. "Glad to see you, buddy. We're gonna need a stretcher."

"You got it," came Rodriguez's reply, and he spoke sharply into a small radio, relaying the order to the chopper. Within seconds, Dixon was running towards them with a stretcher in hand, and they made quick work of hoisting the immobile agent onto its surface and rushing him to the helicopter.

Dixon grabbed a large case from the cockpit, quickly dropped it to the ground next to the stretcher, and without a word, tossed a bundle of supplies to his partner, who immediately went to work on Booth's leg. Meanwhile, Dixon busied himself with an IV line and a bag of fluids. A few minutes later, Booth was stabilized, covered with a heavy blanket, and loaded into the helicopter, where Doggett assumed the task of minding the patient.

It wasn't until the helicopter had reached a comfortable cruising altitude that Doggett's headset crackled to life.

"You okay, man?" Doggett looked up to see Rodriguez turned around in his seat, his eyes grim.

"Yeah. Where are the others?"

Rodriguez shook his head, lips tight. "No survivors here…except for you. The team that went to the airstrip is already back at the base."

"So…al-Qadhi?" Doggett was afraid to ask, mainly because he didn't want to have to be the one to break the news to Booth when he woke up.

Rodriguez shook his head. "What happened out there, Agent Doggett?"

Doggett looked out the window, anger rising. "We had him. At least, we had _her_," he said, lowering his voice and glancing at Booth. Despite Doggett's irrational fear that the mention of Brennan might jolt Booth from his now peaceful state, the unconscious agent gave no indication of cognizance.

"We took control of the boat, but they were faster than us. They were ready. Threw her on a chopper before we could get to her, and then blew the place to hell once they got in the air. We didn't have a chance…"

"You guys did everything you could." Rodriguez said. He turned away, leaving Doggett to replay the scene in his mind. He'd seen Brennan. He'd been so close. He should have been faster…

Twenty minutes later, Rodriguez's voice in his ears interrupted his downward spiral. "We've been ordered to take you back to the base where we'll treat Agent Booth's injuries and debrief you."

"You heard anything from Day? Have they found anything at all?"

Rodriguez shook his head, refusing to meet Doggett's eyes. Something in the copilot's face gave Doggett the fleeting sense that the man was withholding information, but Doggett quickly shrugged it off as stress-induced paranoia.

Doggett nodded and glanced out the window as exhaustion began to overtake him. He decided to stop resisting, and finally rested his head on the window frame. Within minutes, he had fallen into a heavy slumber.

Rodriguez, satisfied that both agents were taken care of for the moment, reached for a switch on the dash of the chopper and turned off the communication system in Doggett's headset. He felt Dixon's eyes on him, and glanced over to see the pilot's concerned look.

"You didn't tell him about the video."

"I didn't think it was my place. Day will debrief him. Better to let them sleep. They've been through enough."

The murkiness was receding, and a chorus of unfamiliar voices edged into Booth's consciousness. He listened as he floated to the surface, trying to separate out the words so that he could make sense of them. He was suddenly aware of an acute throbbing in his leg, and he reflexively shifted its position, which sent searing pain up the left side of his body and jerked him suddenly into a fully-awake state.

After the wave of pain had passed and he had gathered his wits for a moment, he flipped through his recent memories, trying to place his setting. His first thought was his brain surgery, and he scanned the room, expecting to see Bones in a chair keeping watch over him. His hopes were quickly dashed. She wasn't here.

A sudden memory flashed through his mind: A boat. A helicopter. Her limp form held in place by a seatbelt harness. His screams as she floated just out of his reach, and then, finally, out of sight.

The explosion.

The knowledge that she was gone. Again.

He pushed himself up despite the fierce protestations from his leg and yanked the IV from his arm angrily. Forcing back a sudden wave of nausea, he swung his legs to the side of the bed and attempted to stand. A medic appeared in the doorway just in time to catch him as he crumbled to the floor, overtaken by lightheadedness.

"Agent Booth, you shouldn't be up," scolded the medic, a young African-American kid who reminded him instantly of Clark.

Booth let the kid help him back onto the gurney. Once he was situated, he grabbed the medic by the sleeve. "Where's Doggett?"

"Umm, sir, I don't know who that is…"

"My…partner. Doggett. The FBI guy."

"I'm not sure. Do you want me to get someone…"

"Yeah. Do that. Get someone," Booth growled. He was pissed at everyone and at no one in particular, and he felt a twinge of guilt for taking it out on the kid, but he didn't care.

The medic made a hasty exit, and a few minutes later, Staff Sergeant Day entered the room, followed by a downcast and weary Doggett.

"How are you feeling, Agent?" asked Day, with genuine concern on his face.

"I'm fine." Booth's answer was gruff; he didn't have time for pleasantries. "What's going on?"

Day's lips flattened into a tight line, and Doggett stepped forward, eyes downcast.

"We've been ordered back home," Doggett muttered.

"Who gave the orders?" Booth demanded.

"Hacker."

"I don't work for Hacker," spat Booth. "What the hell is going on, John?"

"Your boss, too, Booth," Doggett said. He inhaled sharply, held his breath, then let it out in a defeated sigh, trying to delay the inevitable a few seconds longer. "Finley has a team at the CIA still working satellite images, monitoring air traffic, shipping ports, railroads, everything they can get their hands on. They don't have much to go on, but…" Doggett trailed off, unsure how to proceed.

"Dammit, John, just spit it out!"

Doggett sighed again. "We got a video off the internet. It was posted early this morning on several Islamic sites, several hours after our raid. It's al-Qadhi…"

Booth shot upright once again, ignoring the debilitating pain. "Where? I need to see it."

Doggett nodded and handed Booth a tablet computer with a video file cued in the main window. He tapped the screen and watched as the pixelated version of al-Qadhi sprung to life.

The rant began with the typical extremist bravado, and Booth scanned the picture for clues as al-Qadhi driveled on. In the background, a large Palestinian flag filled the picture, making it impossible to speculate about location and time of day.

Clean shaven and well-dressed in Western clothing, al-Qadhi was not the run-of-the-mill terror leader. He had little to no accent, having been educated in the United States. If someone met him on the street, they'd take him to be a wealthy businessman, not someone who'd spent time in a Yemeni prison for the last five years.

Booth's attention returned to the terrorist's words at the mention of a hostage.

"…_prisoner of war will be harshly punished if our demands are not met. First, my brother, Azeem al-Qadhi, will be released from the prison camp in which he has been held for the last seven years. Second, the United States will cease its support of Israel, beginning with the ousting of Israeli diplomats and government officials who are in Washington this week for the CUFI rally, and third, the United States will demand from Israel that the Lebanese prisoners being held in Israel be immediately released under threat of war._

"_The first demand – the release of my brother – will be recognized as an act of goodwill on the part of the United States and will be rewarded with the release of the American hostage. If this demand is not met by the start of the CUFI rally, we will understand this to be denial of our wishes, and the hostage will be tortured and killed. Furthermore, the wrath of God will be visited upon Washington in such a manner as America has not seen before now._

"_Our struggle will end only when Israel is obliterated and the 1948 borders of Palestine have been liberated. Praise be to Allah."_

The video froze as the file ended, and Booth gripped the tablet, his knuckles white, paralyzed as the overwhelming gravity of the situation settled upon him.

Doggett shifted his weight. "We're analyzing the video file, trying to trace it to its original post," he said softly. "So far, we've come up empty on leads."

"Get it to Angela," Booth said as he tossed the tablet aside and swung his legs to the side of the gurney once again. "My guess is that they're headed to Washington so they can be close to the action next week. We should get back."

Day nodded and stepped to Booth's side. "We've got a transport flight readying for your departure. You'll be in the air in a couple of hours. We'll keep working here, and I'll have one of my guys bring you a laptop with a web conferencing setup so you can make the most of your time here while you wait. In the meantime, here's a phone." He handed a handset to Doggett, and before he had disappeared into the hallway, Doggett had already placed the call.

Angela picked up after the first ring, her voice weary.

"Angela. John Doggett…"

"Omigod, Doggett! Thank God! We were so worried, and the FBI wouldn't tell us anything, and are you okay? Is Booth okay? Did you find her?"

"I'm here, Ange," Booth chimed in. He could hear her taking a breath to launch into another round of relieved babbling, so he cut her off at the pass. "Angela, listen. We are headed home…"

"You found Bren?"

"No. They got away." He could hear her choke back a sob on the other end, and he softened. "Listen, please, I need your help. We are going to find her, but I need you to do something for me."

"Anything."

"There's a file – a video that was released this morning to several Islamic extremist websites. It's al-Qadhi, and he specifically mentions an American hostage in it. Pull it off and analyze every damn nook and cranny of that thing… see if you can find something the CIA and the military are missing."

Angela was silent for a minute. "Is she… is she still…"

"Yeah, Ange, we don't have any reason to believe otherwise. Just do what you can. We'll be there late tonight, and we'll come straight to the lab."

"I'll call you as soon as I have something…"

"I know you will." He nodded to Doggett, who ended the call.

There was nothing they could do now but wait, so they sat in silence, lost in thought, each trying desperately to figure out their next move.

_Reviews make me very happy. _

_Oh, and FYI, we'll see more of Brennan in the next few chapters. I've been missing her – haven't you?_


	28. Chapter 28

Chapter 28

Brennan was rousted from her sleep by a noise she could not pinpoint, and found herself in a plush bed, sunlight streaming through a high window, her mind clear and her body rested. She lay still and listened for a moment, senses on full alert, hoping for a reprise of the clanging she'd heard in her dream, but the room remained silent.

Suddenly, she realized she was in an unfamiliar setting. They'd moved her. She had no recollection of how she'd ended up here, and had no inkling how long it had been since she'd been taken from the boat. She sat up, keenly aware of the absence of pain in her shoulder. Upon further examination, the gaping flesh wound appeared to have healed a bit, although her scapula still hung awkwardly and mobility was limited due to the fracture. Based on the amount of healing that had occurred, she guessed that at least four days had passed since that fateful night on the boat – the night she'd seen the blurry footage that shattered her to pieces…

As soon as the memory began to worm its way into the fore of her mind, she pushed it aside, locking it away. Dwelling on it would only serve to debilitate her, and she needed her mind clear, her logic sound. She was here now. She could control "here."

She scooted to the edge of the bed and stood gingerly to assess her surroundings. The room was large, its walls richly paneled in dark wood, with a massive fireplace set into the longest wall in front of her. The bed sat in the middle of the room facing the fireplace, and behind it, a small sitting area had been carefully staged, complete with a chaise, an armchair, and a table. A door at the end of the room led to a cavernous bathroom that was covered in marble, and she wandered past the walk-in shower and found a cedar-lined closet that was stocked with clothing in her size. She made her way back to the main room in puzzlement; save for the locked steel door at the other end of the room, she'd swear she'd been whisked away to a bed and breakfast.

The loud clanging sound erupted again behind her, and she turned just in time to see a section of paneling near the fireplace open, revealing a dumbwaiter carrying a tray of food. After a brief moment of debate, she moved towards the gift and awkwardly removed the tray with her good hand, then carried it to the table behind the bed.

She sat on the couch and uncovered the tray, and was surprised to find a vast selection of vegetarian breakfast foods, including the soy bacon she loved. She was anything but hungry, but she knew that her body needed protein, so she ate. She'd need her strength if she was going to get out of this.

When she had finished, she leaned back into the cushions of the chaise and considered her next move. It would be best to search the room for vulnerabilities or for tools that might aid in her escape, but she really just wanted a shower. It was irrational and a bit frivolous, but she couldn't remember the last time she'd felt clean, and so she decided that that would be her first order of business.

Once under the comforting warmth of the spray, however, she began to relax, and her mind began to drift, and it wasn't long before she was fighting choking sobs. This angered her, which caused her to cry harder, and soon she gave in to the utter force of the emotion within her. Remembering Angela's theory about needing "a good cry every now and then," she leaned into the thick, cold glass block wall of the shower, and allowed herself to be ravaged by the storm within.

When the tears ran out, she became angry again – angry at herself for crying, angry at Booth for abandoning her, then following her, then getting himself killed, angry at the terrorists and their misplaced hate, angry at Booth's God, or the universe, or whatever the hell had allowed this to happen, angry at her irrational anger.

She picked up a bottle of expensive shampoo that had been provided for her and, with her good arm, hurled it against the marble wall of the shower. She was angry at her captors for all their damn niceties.

She stood there, out of breath and rattled by intermittent, hiccupping gasps one develops after sobbing uncontrollably for twenty minutes, and in her exhaustion, she found that she felt much better. She turned off the water and stepped out of the shower onto the heated tile, and pulled a plush towel off the towel warmer next to the shower door. Damn them, she thought as she wrapped the towel around her, but her anger had dissipated, and she made a deal with herself then: she would only allow herself to _feel_ within the safety of that shower. Outside its walls, it had to be all logic and reason.

After pulling on a pair of yoga pants and a t-shirt she found folded in the closet, she padded into the main room once again and decided that she needed to get her bearings, so with great effort and using only one side of her body, she moved the heavy writing desk and its chair beneath the single window that spanned the outside wall of the room. It served as a skylight and was high and narrow, so she lifted the chair and set it on top of the desk, then climbed awkwardly to the top of her makeshift ladder to get a view of the outside world.

She was taken aback at the scenery. She was on an estate of some kind, its lush, green lawn perfectly manicured and landscaped. It spread out in all directions for acres, and in the distance, she could see rolling hills. It certainly did not look like Colombian terrain; if she had to guess, she'd say she was somewhere in Virginia, but she rejected that assumption for fear that it would cloud her judgment and complicate her escape.

When she had gleaned all the data she could, she gingerly made her way to the floor and resumed her inspection of the room.

Three hours later, other than a camera hidden in the light fixture, which she expected, she had found nothing of use to her. Exhausted from the morning's activities and emotion, she laid on the bed to think, but almost immediately fell into a heavy sleep.

At five, the dumbwaiter clanged to life again, jarring her from her rest, and she stiffly made her way to the tray of food that awaited her. Once again, it was fully vegetarian, and once again, she forced herself to eat despite her lack of appetite.

When she was finished, she stood and stretched and looked around the room for a diversion. "Cabin fever," as Booth once referred to it, had not been an issue for her when she was semi-lucid and injured, but now that she had full use of her senses, she was beginning to grow restless. She'd slept all day, and now that the sun was setting, the last thing she was in the mood to do was sleep.

She walked to the writing desk and pulled open the drawer. It was stocked with a large ream of paper and an assortment of pens. She toyed with the idea of working on her novel to pass the time, but quickly realized that she did not trust herself to write for fear that she'd end up writing something to Booth, which was futile, because he was dead.

She had just slammed the drawer closed when the steel door banged open and two men entered the room and strode towards her. She backed towards the bed as they approached, and when they reached her, one of them grabbed her arms and roughly bound her hands, causing her to cry out in pain as her shattered shoulder was jarred from the force of his assault. They ignored her, and then a burlap bag was thrown over her head, and she was led roughly out of the room without a word.

###############

He'd been up all night – they all had – waiting on Angela to find something on al-Qadhi's video file. They had gathered in the upstairs lounge, exhausted but too high on coffee to sleep. They'd run out of words hours before, and now they sat sprawled on the uncomfortable couches, keeping a silent vigil, fiddling with their cell phones or jumping up to pace the catwalk to pass the time.

Finally, as the sun began to spill through the bottom edges of the glass ceiling, Angela appeared, twin dark circles rimming her eyes.

Hodgins was at her side in a flash. She waved him off and directed her attention to Booth, who had leapt to his feet before remembering his injuries. He grimaced, but waited to hear what Angela had for him.

"Um, okay. I've been through the damn file six ways to Sunday. I didn't find anything helpful… except…" She looked unsure of herself then.

"What?" Booth wasn't in the mood for games.

"Well, I found the original website that posted the file, and it doesn't make any sense."

"Angela, seriously… what?"

She sighed. "You're not going to like it. The posting on the original website was dated over two weeks ago, well before al-Qadhi had Brennan."

Booth felt as if the wind had been knocked out of him. "So all that talk of a hostage…"

"Was a bluff – at least, at the time," Doggett said, completing the puzzle. "Sounds like Dr. Brennan turned up in Colombia at an opportune time for him."

"Doesn't matter," said Hodgins. "He has her now."

Booth hobbled to the railing of the catwalk near Hodgins, lost in thought for a few seconds. Suddenly, he turned and snatched Hodgins' cell phone from his hands, and with a feral yell, hurled it to the floor below.

"Hey!"

"DAMN IT!" Booth yelled.

"SEELEY!" Cam chastised, already on her feet.

Booth spun to face them, his face contorted in a anger, but with a sheen on his eyes. After a beat, his shoulders slumped in defeat.

"Sorry," he muttered to Hodgins. "I'll buy you a new one."

Just then, his own phone rang, and he stared at it dumbly for a few seconds before pressing the "accept" button and bringing the phone to his ear.

He waited a beat. "…Yeah?"

The team stared, collectively holding their breath, and watched as he paled and leaned heavily on the rail.

"Okay. Are you sure?...Get a team on it, now!….I understand….I'm headed over." He ended the call, dropping the hand holding his phone to his side and staring over the lab blankly.

"Booth?" Angela's eyes had gone wild.

"Finley," he said, waving his phone slightly by his leg. "Another video… MSNBC just aired it. It was sent to them…"

"Why the HELL did they air it without calling us?" Doggett exploded.

Booth staggered back to the seating area and picked up a remote control. A few seconds later, a small flat screen on the wall sprung to life, and he tuned it to the news channel as the team braced themselves.

The talking heads were reporting the tape with the appropriate amount of eager moroseness, the banner on the bottom of the screen wide and red to signal a news alert. He turned up the volume as the anchor recapped:

"_Once again, we've just received this tape from an anonymous source which we believe to be connected with terrorist leader Yasir al-Qadhi. The group has taken a well-known American scientist hostage, and has made several demands in order to secure her release. We must warn you, once again, that some of these images are graphic."_

From the back of the room, a sob escaped Angela. The screen cut to the grainy video of al-Qadhi, and the team gasped as the camera zoomed out to include the second figure in the shot: a female hostage, seated and bound, with a burlap bag over her head.

No one spoke, including al-Qadhi. He stood slowly and walked behind the hostage, pausing for effect before he began:

"_By now, you have seen our list of demands and should fully understand our mission. Your time is running out. _

"_This woman is innocent. She is an American. She is one of your scientists, one who is well known and quite valuable to your country." _He paused and placed his hands on Brennan's shoulders, and Booth nearly came unglued with rage.

"Don't. touch. her." he seethed under his breath.

Al-Qadhi pulled off the burlap bag, revealing an emotionless Brennan. Much to Booth's distress, she was dangerously thin, and there was something not quite right about her posture. She seemed….askew.

"_I am quite serious when I say that, if our demands are not met by the end of the week, this woman, Dr. Temperance Brennan, will be tortured and then executed, her throat slit like a pig." _

Booth watched as Brennan stared silently forward, not reacting in any way to the horrifying words being spoken over her. His heart shattered – he knew that look. He'd had it, too, when he was a POW. The fight had disappeared from her eyes. She'd shut down.

Al-Qadhi finished his speech and moved away from Brennan. Two masked men took his place behind her, and one of them pulled out a large knife and placed it on her neck, leering at the camera. Brennan maintained her mask of no emotion, and the shot zoomed in on her briefly before going black.

The anchor recapped the story and began to fill in the details of Brennan's backstory, and when parallels to Daniel Pearl, the journalist murdered by terrorists, began to be drawn, Booth switched off the TV.

No one spoke for several minutes. Finally, Booth gathered himself and made the switch to "cop mode," effectively shutting off his emotions.

"Angela, get to work on this one," he said gently. "See what you can find. Call us if there's anything…"

He nodded to Doggett, and then they were gone.

After a few more moments of heaviness, Cam took a deep breath and said, "Okay, people. You heard him. Time to get to work. This case isn't going to solve itself."

**################**

The night had been long for Brennan, as well. After they'd used her as a television prop, she'd been led back to her room, where she spent the rest of the night attempting to formulate a plan. However, with very limited facts before her, she was unable to map out anything beyond a general framework, and ended up exasperated at her helplessness.

She knew that her captivity would end, one way or another, at the end of the week. She only hoped to glean as much information about the event her captors were planning, and she had several thoughts on how to do so.

And so, when they came for her early the next morning, she remained stolid and compliant. She did not resist the binding of her hands, and when they roughly guided her to a private office in another part of the house and forced her into a chair, she did not protest. Her face remained stoic despite her curiosity surrounding why she'd been brought here.

After a few minutes of waiting alone, a door opened at the far end of the room, and Yasir al-Qadhi stepped into the room, a slight smile on his face. He greeted her warmly, but she kept her eyes downcast, affecting the demeanor of a broken prisoner.

"You are tired, Dr. Brennan? I see that you did not sleep much last night. Rest is what you need most right now in order for your body to heal."

She raised her eyes to meet his for a moment, then turned her gaze downward again.

He walked to her and knelt in front of her, his eyes soft. "I truly do not want to harm you, but your government will soon force my hand. I know that they do not negotiate with enemies of state."

She dipped her head slightly to convey her understanding. She mustered all the meekness she could, then simply said, "I have nothing to live for."

He nodded. "I will be merciful in your execution. Until then, your needs will be met with utmost care."

"Thank you."

He stood and walked to his desk, then pressed a button on the phone.

"You will be permitted a few minutes outside each day, contingent on your cooperation, of course. I am sorry that you must remain tied up."

She nodded again. "Thank you."

The door opened again, and Arib appeared, acknowledged his boss, and strode to her. He knelt behind her and released her hands from the bonds, then ran his hands along her scapula to examine her injuries.

"Not necessary, Arib," al-Qadhi said. "Plans have changed. She will not be required for our operation on Friday."

Arib stood. "You have someone else to deliver the package?"

Al-Qadhi picked up a photo and handed it to Arib. "This school bus. There is a primary school group attending the conference. One of our operatives works for the district and has already installed it on the bus without suspicion. It will be better this way. No one will be checking a school bus for such an item."

Arib looked at Brennan briefly, then crossed to his boss. He lowered his voice, but Brennan could hear his protestations. Words like "children," and "innocent" floated through the room, and it was all she could do to remain expressionless while inwardly panicking at this new information.

Al-Qadhi did not appreciate his subordinate questioning his judgment, and in a moment of irritation, said a little too loudly, "It is a nuclear device, Arib. Anyone within a five-mile radius of downtown Washington – including children – will be killed. Or would you rather evacuate the city ahead of our operation?"

Brennan's heart had seized, and all she could think of was Parker - Parker's school was near downtown. The children on the school bus… Parker… she had to get out. Now.

Arib, seeing his boss's anger, backed down quickly and returned in silence to Brennan to begin binding her hands. When he finished, he helped her to her feet, and then led her down a long hallway, into a screened-in porch, and then out onto the lawn.

The morning sun was dazzling, and the fresh air immediately gave bolstered Brennan's spirits, as well as her courage. They walked in silence as Arib led her onto the hedge-lined pathway that led out to the English-style gardens.

When they reached a stone bench in the center of the garden, Brennan glanced at Arib, who had been lost in thought.

"Do you mind if I sit here for awhile?"

He nodded and helped her sit, and then stood awkwardly next to her, unsure of what to do with himself.

"Can I ask you a question?" she dared. He didn't respond, so she continued. "History has shown that Islam, much like Christianity, has had periods of spreading its message through peace, and other periods in which it inspires its followers through war and hatred. However, history has shown that, as a religion and an ideology, it has grown exponentially more during its periods of peace. Your group represents a very violent sect of Islam. Why do you feel that this approach – this attempt to topple a Western culture through terror – is going to be more effective than that of your predecessors?"

Arib, not accustomed to being "Brennanized," looked at her incredulously. He considered his words for a few moments, then said, "We are the true believers. Our cause is worth fighting for. Our commandment allows this: 'Whoever kills a soul _unless for a soul or for corruption in the land_.' Your people have caused corruption in our land. You have murdered our people. An eye for an eye."

"Even children? What of the rest of the commandment – the part you left out: Whoever kills a soul…it is as if he had slain mankind entirely. And whoever saves one – it is as if he had saved mankind entirely?'"

His expression hardened. She didn't claim to be good at reading people, but his blind devotion was evident. In the end, fanaticism would trump logic.

"Now we must go inside. Your time is up."

He leaned toward her to help her up, and she knew that this might be her only chance. As she stood, she swayed drunkenly, falling into him and nearly knocking him to the ground.

"I…help…" she grunted out, then tumbled to the ground, shaking violently in a horrifyingly realistic grand mal seizure.

Arib jumped back, terrified and in shock as she writhed and seized on the ground, allowing her eyes to roll back into her head and her face to contort into an expression fit for a horror movie. She let it play out for a full minute, and would have continued longer, but she had fallen on her shoulder and was in excruciating pain. She rounded out her performance by gasping and choking loudly, and then, for the grand finale, lay still in a comatose heap, trying her best not to breathe.

Arib stood over her for several seconds before his medical training took over. He quickly knelt beside her and checked her pulse, then worked to untangle her from herself by releasing her hands from their bonds. He rolled her onto her side, and when he was satisfied that she was alive but unconscious, he ran halfway to the house and yelled for help.

Satisfied that she was hidden by the hedges, Brennan struggled painfully to her feet, checked her surroundings, and, pleased to find a dense, wooded area several hundred yards ahead, she began to run.


	29. Chapter 29

_**A/N: Thank you for your patience as I've made you wait so long for this update! Real life has eaten me alive, so it's been a challenge to find the time to write. Yesterday was my birthday, though, so I asked for some much-needed writing time from my husband, and he obliged. Hooray!**_

_**This chapter is for my Twitter peeps – y'all rock. Thanks for keeping me motivated and for encouraging me. And, like I promised you after the last chapter, I'll only be posting the "good parts" of this story to save everyone time and heartache. **_

_**/snark**_

Chapter 29

Brennan was well into the woods before she heard the shouting in the distance. Her shattered shoulder made traversing through the rugged terrain extremely difficult; on uneven ground, she had only the use of one arm with which to steady herself. Still, she had a decent lead, and the fact that the estate was surrounded by woods worked to her advantage. As far as her captors were concerned, she could have taken off in any direction.

She scrambled down an embankment and, much to her surprise, found a wide river at the bottom. It was shallow enough to wade across, and she stepped into its murky waters without hesitation and sloshed through the knee-high water as quickly as she could. Once on the other side, she took a few minutes to catch her breath and to listen.

The shouting in the distance had faded, and she assumed that, for now, they were not searching in her vicinity. She glanced around, wishing that more of Booth's tracking skills had worn off on her over the years. She only knew that she was headed slightly north, but without any sense of where she was to begin with, she was basically walking blind.

She climbed awkwardly up the gently slope of the riverbank, and hope rose within her as, through the trees, she caught a glimpse of a lush, green meadow and a freshly painted red barn nestled into the side of a small hill at the back of the property.

As she approached the edge of the tree line, she took a hard right and followed the natural path along the property line. There was no sign of a road or a house nearby; her only hope was to make it to the barn undetected – tricky, due to the lack of cover since leaving the woods – and to try and find some sort of vehicle or radio to call for help.

She swallowed back the lump in her throat as she thought of how close she finally was to freedom – days had stretched into weeks, and she had lost track of time as she'd been moved, drugged, shot, assaulted, and violated by so many different people. More injury to add to her arsenal of shame that she already carried with her. Sweets would want to dissect her. The thought made her sick as she realized that she would no longer have Booth as a buffer between herself and the eager psychologist.

Her insides formed a sickening knot as she thought of returning to her "normal life." In just a few short hours, she would be free, and after the questions and the concerned looks and the smothering by her associates and students, she'd be left to navigate life without Booth. In the past, she'd be able to compartmentalize and throw herself into her work, and even after the Gravedigger incident, she'd been okay, because Booth had been there, holding her up, a constant who quietly imparted strength just by his presence in her life. He'd been her "normal" for the past six years. Everything was wrong now. She'd have to go home and pick up life without him. She'd have to try and remember "normal" before Booth, which wasn't so easy because of how much he'd changed her.

It might be easier to simply disappear. The thought of living under the constant pity and sympathy of those who knew her best was suffocating to her – she'd never escape their well-meaning but meddlesome "care" – in their clutches, she'd constantly be reminded of how she'd failed Booth; about how she was, in the end, not enough for him, and how that ultimately led to his demise. She would have to live with that guilt the rest of her life, and she certainly didn't need prying friends to help her with that.

And while she loved her career and the status and position it had brought her, she no longer clung to those things. They defined her less and less as she had learned – through Booth's influence – to find meaning in things like connection, relationship, human interaction. She could find that anywhere, with people who had no knowledge of the baggage she carried. She needed to forget. She was strong, and she'd started over many times before. She could do it again.

By the time Brennan reached the barn, she'd nearly made up her mind to call in an anonymous tip regarding the planned attack on D.C., and then to make a second call to her father, who would be thrilled to help her disappear, and who would be more than happy to keep her hidden.

She rounded the corner of the barn and found a side door that was unlocked. She pushed it open cautiously and slipped inside, then stood just inside for a few moments to allow her eyes to adjust to the darkness. Pulling the door open to allow for more light inside the barn, she peered into the vast space to try and get her bearings.

She began groping her way along the perimeter and, after several painstaking minutes, located a light switch. She flipped it, and suddenly, the area where she stood was awash in the blue cast of harsh fluorescent light. She was standing near an old workbench that was littered with screws, empty jars, and old paint cans – nothing helpful to her. She stepped further into the room, the dim light helping her to make out the outlines of old farm implements and, towards the back of the building, an old van.

She had taken her first step towards her newly found escape vehicle when she heard a car door slam outside and an angry voice on one end of a phone conversation as he approached the barn. She quickly switched off the light and dove under a nearby pile of tarps she'd spotted, and then she held her breath as she heard the large barn door slide open.

"…_have to take matters into my own hands because of your incompetence_," she heard him say. He grunted a few times in response to whatever the other party was saying, then suddenly, he unleashed a loud verbal assault of choice words and slammed something loud and metallic in the barn to punctuate his anger. The sudden cacophony caused Brennan to jump, and she fought to regain her composure as she heard him continue:

"Yeah, well, fuck Arib. He screwed up. Motherfucker was having second thoughts, anyway. He's better off dead. Al-Qadhi wants the job done today…now, actually. We don't know where the scientist ended up. I'm coming to the bus shed now with the remote for the device. It had better be armed and ready when I get there. Two hours."

Her heart sank as she realized that she was still in the clutches of her captors, and then she panicked when she realized that her escape had caused the planned attack to be moved up. There would be no time to call in help – if they were planning something for today, it would happen at the height of the city's activity, when people were in town for work, when children were getting out of school…

_And Parker was one of those children._

It would be up to her, then to stop this.

Brennan listened as the man rifled around the barn, and then peered out from under the tarp as soon as she felt it was safe. She could not see much under the tangle of equipment and junk that lay between her hiding place and the area where the van was parked, but she could see his feet. It appeared that he was loading the vehicle.

She waited until he headed outside for another load, and she took advantage of the moment to slip out from under the tarp and make her way toward the van. She waited in the shadows behind an old plow as he placed something inside the back of the van, and then watched as he emerged. She could see his face fully now – she'd noticed that he had an American accent, and now that she could see him, she was struck by the fact that he was wearing fatigues decorated much like Booth's, and his hair was cropped close in military-issue style. Anger rose within her as she thought of the dishonor and betrayal Booth would feel at the sight of this traitorous man before her.

He walked around to the driver's side of the van and started up the engine, then headed back outside the barn. Brennan took advantage of his absence and quickly slipped into the back of the van, keeping one eye on the doorway as she desperately searched for a place to hide. She could hear his boots approaching as she dove behind a large trunk, suppressing a cry at the pain that shot through the right side of her body, and prayed that he would not see her. She held her breath as she listened and waited as she heard him pause at the back of the van, then let out a sigh of relief when she finally heard the doors slam shut.

She heard him climb into the driver's seat and then braced herself against the back of the bench seat as the van lurched out of the barn doors and into the brilliant, late morning sunshine.

############

Booth paced in Doggett's office as Doggett finished a call with the FBI video analyst. It was well past noon, and he could tell that they were no closer to finding al-Qadhi's location than they'd been three hours ago. He was losing his mind. He could not get past the image of Brennan he'd seen on the TV screen, looking like a shell of her former self. He could not imagine what she'd been through – she was a fighter, and for her to have lost her will to fight meant that what she'd faced as a hostage had been unspeakable. The aftermath of her captivity alone would likely take years to undo… and that was _if_ she would even let him back into her life after the way he'd treated her. He was responsible for it all. He didn't deserve to have a place in her life at all after what he'd done… But he had to know that she was okay. He had to try and fix this mess, even if that meant letting her kick him to the curb once she was safe.

Doggett's computer chirped, alerting him to an incoming video call, and he leapt to his screen and pounded the "enter" button to accept the chat. Immediately, Angela's face filled the screen, looking at once triumphant and urgent.

"Angela… tell me you found her…"

"She's here! She's in the area!" she shouted over him. "Outside of Harrisonburg…they used a new camera that has GPS tagging…they must have forgotten to disable it! We found her, Booth!"

Doggett had joined Booth behind the desk and was already on his cell arranging for a tactical team and helicopters as Booth copied down the GPS coordinates. Within minutes they were at the staging area, and after a quick briefing of the team, they were suited up and ready.

Booth had just buckled himself into the jump seat when Hacker appeared in the doorway.

"Booth! Get out!" Hacker shouted over the rotor's cacophony.

"What?"

"I have to pull you off this team! CIA called and needs to bring you in! You need to come to my office…"

Booth felt the fury rising within. "No way in HELL I'm getting off this chopper, Hacker. _No way_."

Hacker glared back. "Booth, _now_, or I'll have you arrested for hampering an FBI operation." Two armed agents appeared in the doorway of the helicopter. Booth didn't budge.

"Booth, you're wasting time. We need to get this chopper off the ground now, and we can't do it until you are out of that seat. You are delaying us from saving Temperance. Do you really want that on your conscience?"

At that, Booth ripped off his restraints and dove through the opening, tackling Hacker on his way. He grabbed his former boss by the lapels and yanked him to his feet, seething as he invaded Hacker's personal space.

"Don't go there with me, Hacker. Don't do it."

The two agents were on Booth immediately and wrestled him away from Hacker. Hacker stepped back, brushed himself off, and then sighed. He looked at Booth with a mix of compassion and patience.

"Booth, we can argue about this later. This isn't up to me. We have a hostage to find, and you have a mission. Rescuing Temperance is top priority. Trust Agent Doggett to handle it – he's the best man for the job."

Booth yanked himself free from the two agents and stormed away. Once he reached the rooftop door, he yanked the door open and made his way down the stairs. When he reached the third floor, he found Finley waiting for him in the hall.

"Agent Booth. How's your leg?"

Booth grunted. "Still hurts. Don't have time to think about it. What the hell is going on?"

Finley nodded towards Hacker's office. "In here."

Booth followed, all the while entertaining visions of slamming Finley into the wall. He took a deep breath to calm himself, and then stepped into Hacker's office and shut the door.

"Sorry to pull you off that mission, Booth. I fully understand what it means to you, and I do not take lightly the decision to bring you in. I wouldn't do it if I didn't need you, but based on intel we've received, you're the most capable of handling this situation."

"This better be good," Booth grumbled.

"I'll remind you, Agent, that you do work for the CIA. I'm sorry that your job keeps getting in the way of your personal issues, but I think I've been more than lenient in that area. This is not something I'm willing to bend on. And it sounds like the FBI has the rescue operation covered. I need you to focus."

Booth's jaw ticked in irritation. He knew Finley was right, of course, but his loyalties were still with Brennan, and, if he was honest with himself, with the FBI. He didn't belong with the Agency.

"We know that al-Qadhi is planning something for Friday. We've finally got through to an informant we've been working with for several weeks now. We've confirmed through our source that al-Qadhi and his people have managed to purchase and smuggle an ADM into the country within the last week or so. The timing alone leads us to believe that he's planning on using it Friday."

Finley had Booth's full attention now. "An actual suitcase nuke, or a dirty bomb? Suitcase nukes aren't real."

"This one is very much a real nuke, not an explosive laced with radioactive material. It was modified by the Iranian government a few years ago, and made its way to al-Qadhi through his connections with Hezbollah. According to our source, the original plan was to use a hostage to deliver the device to its mark, but the hostage was injured, and plans were changed."

_Bones. _Booth sat heavily into one of Hacker's chairs as the pieces of the puzzle came together. They had planned to sacrifice Bones, but she'd been injured. Something had happened that had disabled her. That's why she'd looked so…broken. Part of him was relieved that she'd been spared that end, but his relief was quickly replaced by panic at the notion that she was no longer of value to her captors.

"Our informant didn't know specifics, but said that he thought al-Qadhi had a warehouse space somewhere on the edge of the city. Use whatever means necessary to find it. Use your people at the Jeffersonian. Do what you do. You had the highest solve rate in the FBI thanks to your teamwork with them. I have full confidence that will translate to a case involving national security – especially since one of their own is involved."

Booth stood and headed for the door, wanting to get to the squints on it as soon as possible. After a quick call to Cam to have her assemble the team, he dialed another number and was relieved when the other party answered on the first ring.

He skipped the pleasantries. "Rebecca, I need you to go get Parker right now, and I need you to get as far away from DC as you possibly can…"

A few minutes later, satisfied that his son was safe, he peeled out of the Hoover parking garage and headed back to the lab.


	30. Chapter 30

_A/N: Happy New Year! I resolve to finish this story this month! How's that?_

_So here's a short chapter, and I'm hoping to get the next one finished later tonight for you guys… I'm out of practice, but I'm trying to get the cobwebs out and get this baby written!_

_Rescue is coming…. Hold on a little longer, mmmkay?_

Chapter 30

The van bounced roughly along a winding road for an impossibly long time, making the trip miserable for Brennan as she crouched awkwardly behind a cluster of crates. Despite the ear-spitting 80s heavy metal that the driver was blasting on the radio, Brennan held her breath, fearful of detection.

She hadn't figured out yet what she would do when the van arrived at its destination. She would most certainly be discovered as soon as they began unloading; she would have to rely on "dumb luck" to avoid being seen.

And then what? How did she expect to take down a terrorist operation with no weapon, no backup, and a crippling injury? The old sense of shame and self-doubt rose within as she realized that Booth would severely chastise her for her recklessness. His overprotectiveness would trump any reasoning she used on him, despite the validity therein. She swallowed her insecurity back down and rationalized her actions: there was no time to call for backup. She alone was privy to information regarding al-Qadhi's next move. She was in a position to do something – anything – about it. Lives were at stake. Time was of the essence.

Bolstered by the knowledge that she had only one possible course of action, then, she steeled herself against the cargo surrounding her as the van bucked to a stop. She felt a slight gust of air and a gentle rocking as the driver must have opened the door – it was impossible to hear anything over the still-blaring strains of one of those bands Russ used to like as a teen.

She cursed at the cacophony. She did not have the luxury of hearing what was going on outside the van, so she had no way of knowing if they were stopping at a gas station, or if they had arrived at their final destination. Gathering her wits, she carefully straightened as much as she dared and peered out the front windshield.

They were in some sort of enclosure – a garage, perhaps – although Brennan could see snatches of sunlight dancing on the wall near the far corner of the building. The driver door remained open, and it swung gently back and forth as the van's driver held onto its frame, obviously engaged in conversation with an unseen party. Brennan took advantage of the time to plan her escape route.

When the driver door finally slammed shut, she leapt from her hiding place and quickly crawled over the front bench seat. She paused for a moment and tried to listen – or feel – for any clues as to where her unwitting captor was in the room. A split second passed before the van shook with his efforts to open the back hatch, and she dove into the front seat and out the driver's door just as the cargo bay was opened to the light of day.

**#####################**

Booth paced relentlessly as Angela queried the computer for anything connected to the information the CIA's informant had offered. So far, it had been a bust, and when Booth cursed at Angela's machine for the third time, she spun around and shot him her best glare.

"OUT!" she commanded, sweeping her arm across the room and pointing to the door. "Now!"

Booth gave her a sheepish look. "Sorry. I'll behave."

"No, you won't, G-man. I'm wound up, too, but you're not helping. Go take a walk. Go!" She jabbed a perfectly manicured finger at the door to emphasize her mandate. "I'll call you when I find something."

Booth sighed heavily and left her to work, feeling thoroughly useless. He headed to the snack machine – not because he was hungry, but because he had nowhere else to go – and then he heard Hodgins' voice behind him.

"Booth! Man, you gotta come look at what I found on this message board."

Booth rolled his eyes and swung around to face him. "Hodgins, not now. Really not interested in your 'lizard people' stuff at the moment."

Hodgins reddened as a flash of irritation passed over his face. "Seriously, man, do you think I'd be wasting my time on that right now? Look, I just feel so…helpless. There's no slime to analyze. I figured I'd explore other channels, do what I could, you know? Doggett told me about some conspiracy friends of his – The Lone Gunmen, they were called - they're pretty much legends in the hacker community. Anyway, I did some digging around on a tribute site that was set up after they died. One thread led to another, and, well, just come look."

Booth grunted and stared after the etymologist, who was already halfway to his office. "This better be _good_, Hodgins," he called.

"Yeah, well, from the looks of it, you've been relegated to D-hall, too, so I'm pretty sure you don't have anything better to do. Am I right?" Hodgins called over his shoulder.

Booth conceded and made his way to Hodgins' office.

"Okay," Hodgins said, his eyes twinkling as Booth approached. "First, are you familiar with Usenet?"

Booth nodded. "Yeah. People download porn and stuff there, right?"

"That's not all it is. Yeah, porn happens, and a lot of other file sharing – music, movies, stuff like that. It's really only the real geeks who use it, and they use it because it's anonymous. It's really hard to track someone's IP because they're usually hidden behind a proxy…it's highly secretive. Anyway, stuff gets traded – including good, old-fashioned information.

"Anyway, so I found this particular newsgroup through a series of links on the Lone Gunmen's tribute page on 4chan. Apparently, there's a group of hackers who have made it their mission to infiltrate and jack with terrorist organizations – sort of like cyber vigilantes. They do everything from pretending to be terrorists to actually hacking into their computers and sending the terrorists viruses. Anyway, someone just posted to the newsgroup some email correspondence…well, look."

Booth pulled up a rolling chair and peered over Hodgins' shoulder at the screen.

"_Operation moved up. Need a programmer TODAY. Please advise."_

Booth sat back and narrowed his eyes. "Yeah, so?"

"Dude! Look at the freaking thread before it!" Hodgins scrolled up to the top of the page so Booth could see the entire thread from the beginning. "Look! It starts with this guy – we'll call him 'Neo' – who is a hacker on the boards. He's bragging about infiltrating a big organization. When you read through the threads, it's obvious that he's talking about al-Qadhi. Anyway, he's been corresponding with someone in al-Qadhi's organization for several weeks, and there was something big planned for Friday. This message came in an hour ago. Whatever al-Qadhi planned for Friday, it's happening today."

Booth's heart leapt into his throat. He flew out of his chair and pulled his cell from his pocket. 

"Is there any way you can track down this 'Neo' guy? Any way to find him?" he asked as he dialed.

"Not without Caroline. We'd have to subpoena the Usenet records – and even at that, it's highly unlikely they keep track of IPs."

"Well, get Angela on it. If anyone can crack it, she can," ordered Booth.

**###################**

The raid on the al-Qadhi compound was maddeningly anticlimactic.

Doggett and the team had converged on the property like swarm of locusts and had made quick work of the sweep, which turned up nothing.

No sign of al-Qadhi.

No weapons.

No suitcase bombs.

No Brennan.

He'd seen the basement room that al-Qadhi had turned into a makeshift TV studio. He recognized the backdrop from the earlier video almost immediately.

Another agent had shown him a bedroom stocked with women's clothing. He was sure that they'd find DNA evidence that Brennan had been held in this room. Still, nothing they turned up pointed to where she was or what al-Qadhi had planned. He'd remained maddeningly one step ahead of them.

The only thing they'd found of substance was a dead operative, and a preliminary – albeit non-official - ID had told them that it was most likely Arib Kazi, al-Qadhi's Number Two, also suspected as the brain behind several foreign terror acts. He'd been dead before they arrived - the coroner would determine TOD specifically once he arrived – but the gunshot wound to the back of the head told Doggett enough of the story to put together the hunch that something had gone very, very wrong, and that Kazi had suffered the ultimate punishment for it.

And that thought led to a much more unsettling one: if al-Qadhi had disposed of the man who was purported to be like a son to him, what had happened to Brennan? If something had disrupted their plans, what use would Brennan be to them? Or had she escaped?

Doggett was dreading the call to Booth; he was sure that yet another setback would send the already-broken agent over the edge. He needed to find something – anything – that would help them progress in finding her. A dead end was unacceptable.

################

Brennan rounded the hood of the van in a low crouch, straining to listen for activity at the back of the van. She stopped at the passenger side quarter panel and waited, confident that she had sufficient cover so long as the driver remained at the back hatch.

The van bounced slightly, and then a loud smack reverberated through the garage as the man offloaded one of the large crates onto the concrete. Brennan relaxed slightly, remembering that there were several other boxes in the van; she had a few seconds to get her bearings as he unloaded the rest.

She turned so that her back was to the van and scanned her surroundings. A flash of yellow to her right caught her attention, and she immediately fixated on the group of three late-model school buses in the service bay. If she could make it across the garage without detection, one of the buses would provide cover…

It was then that she felt the cold steel of a gun barrel pressing into her left temple. She froze instantly.

"Stand up."

She dared not look at her captor, but she struggled to her feet in obedience, hands raised in surrender. He grabbed her roughly by the arm, jerking her the rest of the way up, and she cried out in pain as her broken shoulder was wrenched.

He jabbed the gun into her head harder. "Shut up. Move!" He shoved her towards the back of the van.

When they rounded the corner, the driver in the fatigues looked up in surprise.

"Where the hell did she come from?"

"You tell me. She was hiding at the front of the van."

Realization settled on the driver's face, and he grinned widely. "This is the bitch scientist that Arib was supposed to be handling. Must've stowed away. Can't wait to tell al-Qadhi she was with me the whole time."

"You want me to handle her?" asked the man with the gun.

"Hell, no! We're going to use her to deliver the device. Al-Qadhi was trying to use her as a bargaining tool. He had to pull up stakes and change his whole operation because Arib let her get away. I'm going to help him out. I'm making the executive decision."

"Executive decisions will get you killed. Al-Qadhi calls the shots. Don't be stupid."

"Al-Qadhi thinks she's long gone. Besides, why waste an opportunity to make a statement? He has no feel for drama. This is maximum impact. A nationally-known scientist and bestselling author who works for the FBI… and we have her take out Washington? That's beautiful. It doesn't get any more perfect than that."

The man with the gun on Brennan shrugged. "I'm just saying, there's a reason al-Qadhi opted not to do it that way…"

"Just shut up and get her secured. We're going to make this thing into a fucking broadway production. Al-Qadhi will thank me for the show I'm putting on. Those fucking assholes in Congress and their little slimy Jew friends won't know what hit them."


	31. Chapter 31

The Aftermath in the Breakup

_A/N: Here's a nice, long update for you guys! Thought I'd get it posted today, and then get to work on the next…. _

_Very extra special thanks to Some1tookmyname, who beta'd this chapter for me. I was pretty sure it sucked, and she not only helped me fix it, but after I'd struggled with writer's block and was feeling a bit futile in my efforts, she made me feel much better about the chapter itself. She's an amazing writer (check out her stories! She's listed in my favorite authors section), so I value her opinions and insights!_

Chapter 31

Booth found himself pacing again, but this time he confined himself to the corridor outside of Angela's office. Angela was frantically searching Usenet archives, thanks to a call on the part of Caroline securing a subpoena, but so far, she was coming up short. As Hodgins had predicted, many of the host sites did not keep records of IP addresses or posts past a day or two old.

Booth's phone vibrated in his hand, and he jerked it to his ear. "Booth!" he barked.

"It's Doggett…"

"Well?"

"Nothing. She was here, Booth, but she's gone. Everyone is gone – the place is totally cleared out."

Booth pulled the phone away momentarily and punched the air in anger. He paced for a few seconds, raking his hands through his hair, forcing composure. He took a deep breath and raised the phone again.

"Okay. What _did_ you find?"

"Only a dead operative – Arib Kazi. He was dead when we got here…"

"Finley will be happy. Pretty sure he had a hand in that string of embassy bombings a few years ago. What else?"

Doggett relayed the information about the living quarters where he suspected Brennan had been held.

Booth felt oddly comforted. "If you found Kazi but not Bones, one of two things happened: either Bones got away, or al-Qadhi still has her and has other purposes for keeping her. Either way, my gut tells me she's still alive."

Doggett grunted. "Thing is, Booth, Kazi was rumored to be the brains behind many of al-Qadhi's most successful operations. He's an engineer, not to mention the close relationship he was rumored to have with al-Qadhi. Why would al-Qadhi take out his most trusted man?"

"Betrayal. Or maybe he screwed something up. We already know that al-Qadhi is half nuts. But," he said as he glanced into Angela's office, "we have a problem. We know from chatter we just came across that the big event has been moved up – it's happening today. Al-Qadhi's men were trolling private message boards earlier looking for an engineer… now it makes sense why. Have your guys take care of the rest of the investigation, John. I need you back here."

Doggett assented and they signed off just as Angela poked her head out of the door.

"Booth! I think I may have tracked down your hacker guy." She disappeared into her office, and Booth hurried after her.

On her screen, a large picture of a clean-cut young man was on display. "This is Jeremy Greenwald. Works for a local web hosting company as a cloud support tech. By some miraculous turn of events, I was able to trace his IP, not from the thread you showed me, but from another board he posted on that doesn't purge its records as often."

Booth was already dialing his phone. "You got an address or anything?"

"Working on it – wait – there it is. It's a DC address – at the intersection of U Street and 16th. Hampton Court Apartments."

"Got it. Good work, Angela," he called as he ran out.

###################

An hour later, Jeremy Greenwald was seated at the interrogation table, nervously gulping water from a bottle.

"So you have no idea who contacted you on that board?" Booth was frustrated. They'd been talking in circles for ten minutes.

"Man, no. Look, my friends and I are just a bunch of geeks who like to torque the bad guys. I mean, if we can't go all Batman on them, at least we can make their lives a little harder by hacking them, right?"

"So you just strike up random conversations with terrorists online and pretend you're sympathizers?"

Greenwald nodded.

"And then what?" Booth sat back in his chair, hoping the distance would allow the kid to relax a little.

"So then we'd get them to give us access to their websites or whatever, and we'd wreak havoc – do a DoS attack on them, sometimes change their content to say something ridiculous, whatever we could do to jack with them. Other times, we would pose as operatives, gain their trust, get invited to participate in an operation as a key player, then not show up. You know. Just to screw with them."

"And that's what you did today?"

"Yeah. I saw the posting about a tech they needed, so I responded and said I'd be there. But man, that information is like hours old now."

Booth leaned in again and narrowed his eyes at the man. "I need you to tell me every single detail of that communication. Where were you supposed to meet them?"

Greenwald sighed. "All I know is that they wanted a programmer to program some switch. They wanted me to show up at the Potomac Avenue Metro station at noon and said that someone would meet me. I wasn't going to show up – no way."

"So you and your nerd friends never pressed them for more information about what they needed programmed?"

"No. Don't you watch _24_, man? They would have used me for my skills and then offed me. I'm not stupid."

Booth sighed. "Look, you're not stupid, but you're still not off the hook. We have your computer and my team is combing it right now. If you're withholding evidence…"

"I'm not! I swear! Why would I do that?"

"Because," Booth answered as he pushed back from the table and stood, "you're cocky, and because you hacker-types think you have a free pass to 'stick it to the man.' I'm serious, Greenwald. I could easily hold you for aiding and abetting terrorists, for withholding evidence, and for obstruction of justice. If I were you, I'd be wracking my brain right now for anything at all I could think of that might help here."

Booth strode to the door and swiftly exited the interrogation room, allowing the door to slam shut behind him. He made his way into the observation room, where Doggett had been watching.

"That kid's a mess," Doggett muttered. "Poor bastard."

Booth joined Doggett at the one-way glass and watched as Greenwald took another nervous swig of water. His leg bounced furiously under the table, and he dropped his head into his hands and blew out a sigh. Booth felt sorry for the kid. His gut told him that he was just a geek who had a false sense of security in the virtual world he'd constructed for himself; he sensed that Greenwald truly had no concept of how large or how ominous the operation he'd dabbled with really was.

Still, he let the kid sweat it out for a while. He was their best lead at the moment, and he couldn't take the chance that there was a detail they were overlooking. 

"Any luck with the computer?" Booth asked.

"Nah, nothing yet." Doggett replied. "When I was in there, they were still scanning. Lots of bootlegged movies and a little porn, but nothing out of the ordinary. Of course, he's got tons of encrypted files on there, too, but he swears he's clean. He's just a paranoid geek. Probably just game cheat codes and role playing games he's coded."

"Still, let's keep him. He may be useful later."

Booth's phone chirped in his pocket, alerting him to an incoming FaceTime call, and he fished it out and hit "accept." After a small delay, Angela's face appeared on the screen, her eyes wide with concern.

"Booth, we found something on another board. Someone from al-Qadhi's bunch posted something about a school bus being used as a bomb at the site of the CUFI convention this afternoon."

Hodgins' face appeared behind Angela's, barely in the frame. "Yeah, man, this is bad. This is really bad. There are tons of kids downtown this afternoon. Apparently CUFI is staging a mock peace talk for school-aged children to attend. The former Prime Minister of Israel is there, as well as that paranoid conservative talk radio guy and lots of congressmen and women. And the place is literally full to the brim with kids. What better way for them to smuggle in a bomb than on a bus? They can hide in plain sight."

"What time does this mock peace talk end? That's when all the buses will be showing up – I'm guessing that's when they'll try something." He ran a hand across the back of his neck as he considered the scenario. "Dammit! It'll be like finding a needle in a haystack!"

"It's over at 4:00."

Booth checked his watch. It was 2:00. "Okay. Good work, you guys. Cross all your T's and dot all your I's – I believe you, but if we're going to send in a bunch of SWAT and freak out a bunch of kids, not to mention the whole damn city, we'd better have some solid proof. Get what you can and send it to Finley asap."

They signed off and Doggett rushed off to convey the news to Hacker as Booth quickly called in the information to Finley, all the while knowing that it was going to be nearly impossible to stop an attack based on sketchy information received on such short notice.

###################

Less than forty-five minutes later, Booth and a team loaded up and departed for the Convention Center, which, fortunately, was less than a mile from the Hoover. With uncharacteristic efficiency, teams from the FBI, the CIA, and Homeland Security, as well as DCPD, had been briefed and assembled, ready to take on the massive operation.

The FBI, in cooperation from DCPD's Swat team, would provide ground support, while the CIA would provide the primary intelligence updates as they uncovered chatter in real time, as well as undercover operatives within the building. A massive joint intel operation was also taking place at each of the agencies – unprecedented information sharing and interagency cooperation, all pulled together in under an hour. Booth marveled at the sudden efficiency and cooperation. He'd never seen it happen in his years of service.

Booth was placed in charge of the sharpshooter team that would surround the perimeter of the convention center – a tall order, considering that the Convention Center spanned several city blocks, some of which contained residential buildings. As he rode to the staging area with his team members, he was thankful that Rebecca chosen to listen to his warning and had taken Parker out of the city. At least he had the assurance that they'd be safe.

However, the pit in his stomach was ever-present, and he desperately needed to detach from his emotions if he had any chance at pulling off this operation. He could not entertain the nagging thoughts about Bones and her whereabouts; he had to focus on the task at hand. He could not let the "what ifs" rule him now. He said a silent prayer for her – perhaps the thousandth that week – and then flipped the imaginary switch that he'd long forgotten, effectively turning himself into a laser-focused killing machine.

The operation itself was going to be tricky. Because the majority of the buses would not arrive until 3:30 or so to transport the children back home, and because they would be arriving en masse, it would be easy for a terrorist to blend in. Not wanting to cause mass panic, and due to the fact that there was nowhere to evacuate five hundred children with the limited timeframe they had, the nearly impossible task of picking out the rogue bus among the hundred others fell on Booth and his men.

As the vehicle transporting Booth and his team bucked to a stop and the team began to spill out of the open hatch at the rear of the vehicle, Booth heard Doggett's voice in his headset.

"You in position, Booth?"

Booth pressed his com button and responded, "Yeah. I'll be at my post in three minutes. Find anything yet?"

"Negative. Bomb squad and canines have cleared the half-dozen or so buses that are already here. There were a few U-Haul-type moving vans nearby that were also checked; they're clear."

Booth disembarked from the van and headed down the alley toward his position. "No reports of any buses missing from the fleet?"

"Not yet," Doggett responded. "But last I heard, the districts hadn't checked all the out-of-service vehicles yet. No way of knowing, really. Not in the short amount of time we have."

"I'll check in with you when I get into position," Booth said. With that, he entered the service entrance of the hotel that sat directly across the street from the loading zone of the convention center. He ducked through the kitchen and took an elevator reserved for housekeeping to the top floor, and then made his way up the stairs that provided rooftop access.

Once in position, he made quick work of readying his Remington M40A1. He checked his vantage point through his scope, noting that he had a long, clear view of the street in both directions in front of the convention center.

He checked in with the rest of the sharpshooter team, and, satisfied that they were in place and ready, he settled in for the nerve-wracking wait. He still had forty-five minutes before the buses would begin to arrive, but those would be spent at full alert.

Thirty minutes later, his com unit crackled in his ear once more.

"Booth? You good?" It was Agent Madsen, who was back at the Hoover overseeing the teams remotely.

"Yeah. The team is ready. Got anything new?"

"Not anything on the bomb, but… I thought you should know that we're chasing a lead from a source who may have found Dr. Brennan."

Booth's heart leapt into his throat. "Where?"

"A hospital in Baltimore. There's a Jane Doe matching her description. Call just came in."

Booth's breath caught and he forgot his target, his world starting to spin. "How… what is her condition?"

"Don't know anything more than that. Obviously critical or they'd have a name. But I wanted you to know… thought it might put your mind at ease a little."

_Shit. _Booth knew the agent meant well, but this new information did nothing but distract him. How the hell was he supposed to concentrate on the task at hand when the only place he wanted to be was in a car, racing to that hospital? A flood of emotions threatened to overtake him.

"Madsen, do me a favor, will you?" he choked out. "Call Angela Montenegro at the Jeffersonian and tell her to get to that hospital. She'll be able to confirm identity."

Madsen agreed and signed off. Booth swallowed hard and raised his rifle with shaking hands, sick with worry and desperately trying to regain his focus. He scanned the street in both directions as he blinked back the layer of tears that pricked at his eyes. He could not do this right now. He had to be vigilant. He had to focus on the situation at hand.

_Buses. _

_Children. _

_Lives at stake. _

He blinked again and took a deep breath. Several buses pulled to the curb at the front of the convention center, and three more were headed towards the building, still several blocks away. Soon, children would be spilling out of every exit. It was time.

He watched as the ground units worked efficiently to clear each bus, thoroughly but quickly checking inside, under, and all around each vehicle. As the canine units deemed each bus safe, it was moved to a secured loading area on the side of the building, where school children were to be routed and loaded as quickly as possible.

The conference was still in session, but several groups were already beginning to exit the building as their buses arrived. Booth, from his vantage point at the top of the hotel, could see the northwest corner of the building, as well as the entirety of 9th Street, which the convention center spanned in both directions, and much of M Street, which ran directly through the convention center via a tunnel that connected the one part of the building to the other.

Booth's earpiece crackled once again. "Booth?" Doggett's voice was loud in his ear.

"Here. Nothing so far."

"I heard about the Jane Doe. You okay?" Doggett's voice was thin, and Booth felt his chest tighten in irritation as he fought the images of Brennan's broken form in a hospital bed that immediately flashed before him.

"Yeah. I can't – go there mentally right now. Got anything?"

"Nothing. I hope your source was right about the school bus."

"He was. Angela found more chatter that corroborated it. The jihadi sites are all buzzing about a 9/11-scale attack today. They'll be here – "

Suddenly, a louder voice cut in.

"All agents – backup needed in sublevel parking. A device has been located and suspects are believed to be in the garage. Repeat – ALL SWAT agents needed for backup. MOVE!"

Booth watched as teams of men clad in black stormed into the building, and then resumed his watch, scanning the street with his scope. A block down, at the Massachusetts entrance to the Convention Center, the first gaggle of children came spilling out onto the sidewalk, apparently oblivious to the drama occurring in the garage below, as their teachers laughed with each other and did their best to herd their charges towards the bus loading area.

"Doggett, what's going on? Gimme a read," Booth called.

"We've got a suitcase-sized package at the back of the garage. Bomb squad is moving in to check it out. A witness saw a suspicious-looking man nearby and thought he had a gun. Suspect is on foot and is wearing jeans and a red hoodie. Keep your eye on the street – we don't know where he might come out."

"Will do."

Booth conveyed the description and orders to the rest of the sharpshooter team as he watched a lone woman dressed in traditional Muslim garb round the corner at the top of the street and head his way. She was carrying two bags of groceries and she stopped at the corner as if to check the bus schedule that was posted there before continuing on down 9th Street in his direction.

Another large group exited the building behind her, and she quickly glanced over her shoulder at them before picking up her pace. However, the group pressed forward towards her, and just as they were about to overtake her, she suddenly spun around and faced them, dropping her bags on the sidewalk and gesturing at them wildly.

"Crazy woman," Booth muttered as he watched the scene through his scope.

The children pushed past her, several of them bumping against her as they passed, and she looked around helplessly for a moment before suddenly grabbing a nearby teacher by the arm. It looked as if she was pleading with the teacher, and then Booth watched the teacher's eyes go wide for a moment. Then, he saw the teacher's mouth open into a horrified scream that he could not hear over the city noise.

Within seconds, the panic spread, and soon, Booth heard the distant screams as children and teachers alike dispersed, a wide circle growing away from the veiled woman on the sidewalk as they scattered.

Booth trained his sights on the woman's head and waited.

She paused, frozen in place for what seemed like an eternity, until the throng was well out of the way. Then, she spun around and scanned her surroundings, and a chill ran down Booth's spine when he realized that she was studying the tops of the buildings. His adrenaline kicked into overdrive when her body language told him that she had spotted his team. And his breath was sucked out of him when, at last, her veiled eyes seemed to meet his through the scope of his rifle.

"You seeing this, Booth?" one of his men croaked in his earpiece.

"Y-yeah. I'm on her. Keep your eyes peeled for the other suspect."

"10-4."

The woman was still standing frozen on the sidewalk, as if undecided about what to do next. Booth held his breath and watched as she shifted slightly. It was then that he noticed the bulky mass on her back. She was hiding something under her burqa.

Booth pressed his com button. "Doggett, you'd better get a team up here, quickly. We've got a situation…"

Just then, a team of six burst from the Convention Center doors closest to Booth's position. Another team had emerged from the doors at the top of the street, and together, they began to hem her in.

"Better keep your boys back, Doggett. She's hiding something under that robe," Booth hissed.

The words had no sooner left his mouth than the woman lifted the long veil slightly, revealing a white vest with a mass of wires and canisters attached to it. Both SWAT teams froze momentarily, guns raised, and while Booth could not hear the interaction, it was clear that one of the men was shouting orders at her to get on the ground.

Instead, however, she raised her hands and took a step towards the forward team.

Booth trained his sight on her head as he watched the SWAT agent repeat his orders to her. She took another step forward. Then another.

Booth could not hear the exchange between the woman and the team, but he knew that the SWAT team could not take her out without risking her being quicker on the draw with a detonator. He watched as they kept their distance, waiting for an opportune time to move.

He had a clear shot of her head. He waited for his orders.

"What's going on down there?" Booth demanded.

"She's not cooperating," one of the men answered. "Keeps asking where the kids are. She tries anything weird, you take her out, got it?"

"Yeah."

The standoff continued like that for several minutes. Booth knew that the SWAT leader was likely negotiating with the woman, but she continued to move forward towards him, one tentative step at a time. The team kept their guns trained on her but kept a wide berth, and she continued to advance, arms stretched out on either side, shaking her head almost apologetically.

Then, she stopped. Booth repositioned himself and centered her in his scope, his trigger finger ready. She suddenly dropped her arms, and her hands disappeared under her veil. She was reaching for something….

His earpiece erupted with chaotic shouts from Doggett, from his team members, and from the higher-ups who were watching at the Bureau.

"Take her out!"

Booth had already squeezed the trigger when he realized that she wasn't reaching for a weapon, but was removing her veil.

The round had already left the chamber of his rifle when the veil fell away to reveal the disheveled auburn hair.

And when the bullet made its purchase, he was almost sure that the crystal blue eyes of his partner met his own, a split second before she crumpled onto the sidewalk.

_A/N: I'm pretty sure you hate me right now. And you know what? That's ok. I'm good with that. Because if you do, I've done my job. _

_Have I mentioned that I really like reviews? No, really. I love hearing from you guys – it brings a smile to my face and touches my coal-black heart._

_Not making any promises about the next chapter except to say that it will be posted very, very soon. _

_Thanks for hanging with me through this amazingly fun journey!_


	32. Chapter 32

Chapter 32

_A/N: Wowzers, y'all. You guys are quite…invested… in this story, and that makes me feel really, really great. Seriously, I'm so stinking humbled by how many of you have commented, favorited, and alerted this story!_

_I've had that last scene in my head since Chapter 1, and I knew that you guys would kill me for it… but it had to be written. Hang in there, guys. There's a purpose for everything. It will all be worth it in the end._

_Thanks to my awesome friend, Some1tookmyname, who has been so great about beta-ing these last few chapters and spurring me to get this next chapter written. You have her to thank for a quick update! And seriously, go read her stuff. It's amazing._

The blast from Booth's gun rang in his ears, and time slowed to a crawl as his field of vision narrowed into a tunnel, the blackness threatening to edge out what little light remained. He stood and staggered backward, his gun clattering to his feet. He was unable to breathe, unable to comprehend what he was seeing on the pavement below.

Special Agent Seeley Booth, former Army Ranger and Special Forces member, Bronze Star Medal recipient and record-holder for the longest shot in combat, never missed his target.

It was his credentials and his reputation as a marksman that had garnered him numerous commendations in his Army days, and it was why he had been sought out and promoted to Special Agent with the FBI in a matter of days of his separation from the Army. It was why the CIA had practically begged him to join them. It was what made him an effective agent. It was what drove him.

Now, it was why Dr. Temperance Brennan - his partner, his best friend, and, yes, the woman he loved - lay in a twisted heap on the concrete below, shrouded in black, with a large, crimson stain growing on the sidewalk beneath her head.

His own head began to swim, and he fell against the wall next to him to steady himself.

Through a fog, he watched as the team below maintained their perimeter around her. The bomb squad burst out of the Convention Center doors and made their way towards her broken form. He could hear the wail of sirens in the distance.

An involuntary sob escaped from within his throat, followed by another. His body was wracked with silent convulsing as he fought the crippling grief that was closing in on all sides.

He had to go to her.

He pushed off of the wall and raced for the stairwell, nearly ripping the door from its hinges. He flew down the stairs in a near-fall, taking them five and six at a time, until his feet finally landed on the ground floor. He hit the lobby doors at a sprint, knocking two of the hotel guests off their feet as he tore past.

The street was empty, having been cordoned off, and he sprinted across toward the throng of armored SWAT team members and police. The sound of his pounding footfalls got the attention of the agents surrounding Brennan, and within seconds, they were on him. Before he knew it, he found himself face down against the rough pavement.

"CIA!" he screamed in desperation. "Let me go!" He fought under their weight, but his hands were roughly twisted behind him as the swarm of agents pinned him to the ground.

"Check my pockets! My badge! I'm CIA!"

Confusion reigned for several minutes as he struggled beneath their grasp. Finally, he heard a familiar voice barking orders.

"Let him go! He's an agent!" Doggett pushed through the crowd and pulled the men off of him, then grabbed him by the arm and dragged him to his feet.

"Let me see her! I have to get to her!" Booth begged, his voice a strangled cry as he barreled through the crowd of agents.

"Sir, it's not safe…" warned one of the operatives behind him.

Doggett shot him a warning look and helped push Booth through. "Stand back, guys. Let us in."

Finally, they were through. Booth emerged from the huddle and froze in his tracks at the sight of his partner's twisted body before him.

It was worse than he could have imagined. Her lean frame was now gaunt, almost skeleton-like. Her body looked broken – her shoulder and arm were twisted beneath her at an odd angle. She was bleeding profusely from her head, but it was impossible to tell the extent of the damage from this angle.

He choked back another sob and rushed to her side, kneeling beside her and frantically searching for a pulse.

"Sir, we need you to get back."

He barely heard the Bomb Squad agent who was addressing him. He fumbled around frantically for a few seconds more, until his trembling fingers finally came to rest on her carotid artery. He forced himself to be still, until, finally, he felt a faint pulse. He sucked in a breath.

"She's alive! Get an ambulance here NOW!"

"Sir…"

"Now!"

"Sir, we need to look at that vest. She didn't have a detonator in hand, which means it's either on a timer or is set up to detonate remotely. It could go off at any time. You need to clear the area."

"I'm not going anywhere," Booth growled. "You can work around me." He turned his attention back to her, carefully turning her head to locate the point of entry.

She was bleeding heavily. He had to stop it. He had to fix her. He sat back on his heels and tore off his flack vest, tossing it aside, then he yanked his shirt over his head and gingerly pressed it to her skull.

After a few seconds, he pulled the now-drenched cotton away. The bullet had penetrated the upper left side of her crown, and there was a gaping hole – shattered bone fragments and blood poured from it - and while it was impossible to tell, he had a faint hope that the damage may not be as bad as he feared.

The Bomb Squad tech knelt near Brennan's side, carefully examining the vest. Booth did his best to stay clear, knowing the device strapped to her chest could make futile any of his efforts to save her.

He was vaguely aware of the news choppers that circled overhead like vultures and the ambulance sirens that grew louder by the moment. He held the t-shirt firmly to her wound and shifted so that her head was resting in his lap. His vision swam as the tears erupted once more, but he forced them back and swallowed hard.

"What have we got?" he asked the tech.

The agent pursed his lips. "Looks like it may be a remotely-triggered device. It's not too complicated. I'll have it disarmed here in a second."

Booth looked up and saw Doggett pacing nearby, finishing a call on his cell.

Booth waited until he signed off, then addressed him pointedly. "What the hell is going on, Doggett?"

Doggett shook his head. "I don't know, Booth. Doesn't make sense. The device we found in the garage was a dummy. And this…" he nodded towards Brennan, "while it was certainly meant to send a message, if it had gone off, it wouldn't have caused much damage, relatively speaking."

Booth shot him a look, and Doggett winced as he realized his words. "What I mean, is that this is a small-scale device. If Angela and our other sources are correct, there's still a suitcase nuke out there somewhere that we haven't found. This was all just a diversion, I'm afraid."

Booth stared at Doggett for a moment, then watched as Doggett's eyes flicked downward to Brennan's form and widened suddenly. Booth glanced down in time to see the tiniest flutter of her eyelids, and he sucked in a breath and held it as he watched to see if another would follow.

A few seconds later, just when he was beginning to think he'd imagined the movement, her eyelids twitched once more, and then slowly opened, revealing a sliver of blue. A soft moan escaped from her lips, and Booth choked out a sob as he stroked her forehead.

"B-Bones?" he whispered.

She didn't respond at first, but instead, opened her eyes a bit wider and struggled to focus on his face.

His heart clenched as her eyes fell shut once more. "Bones! Bones… stay with me. Come on, Bones," he pleaded.

She opened her eyes halfway once more, but he could tell that she was not seeing him. She gasped raggedly, let it out, and then her lips began to move silently.

Booth glanced up at Doggett, who was standing over them, and then turned his attention back to Brennan.

"Bones. Talk to me. Stay with me. You're going to be fine…"

Her eyes were closed again, but she mustered a bit of strength and tried again:

"Bomb…" she whispered, her voice so hoarse and quiet that Booth had to bend down and strain to hear. "…in a…bus…"

"Where, Dr. Brennan?" Doggett asked urgently as he knelt down.

She swallowed with great effort, then her lips began to move again as she tried to muster the strength form the words. "Capitol."

Doggett leapt to his feet and began barking orders to the army of agents behind him.

Booth stroked her head, his hands red with blood. "You're doing great, Bones. Hang on…"

Her eyes opened wide then, and for a split second, he saw recognition dawn on her face.

"Booth…"

At the utterance of his name, his eyes blurred with a fresh flow of tears, but he grinned through them. "Yeah, Bones. I'm here."

"Sir, I got it," said the bomb tech softly. "She's clear. The device is disarmed."

An ambulance pulled to the curb and at once, EMTs were standing over them.

He watched as her expression changed from confusion to blank nothingness.

"Bones…" He watched her eyes slip shut again. "Bones, stay with me…"

A soft moan escaped her lips, and she was deathly pale. He couldn't lose her.

"Bones! Please, just hang on…come on, Bones… you have to stay with me…you have to hang on…just a little while longer…I love you so much, Bones…oh, god, Bones…"

His words dissolved into sobs, his grief unbearable. She stirred a bit, and he imagined that he heard her whisper his name before she went limp, her head lolling to the side.

The EMTs were on the ground next to him, ordering him out of the way. He let them take over, stumbling to his feet and standing back helplessly.

He breathed out desperate, disjointed prayers as they worked on her, and then he looked on helplessly as they lifted her onto the gurney and loaded her deathly-still body into the waiting ambulance, closed the doors, and sped away.

##################

Minutes later, Doggett and Booth were speeding down Massachusetts Avenue towards the United States Capitol Building. Booth was vaguely aware of Doggett's phone conversation, but he could do little more than stare in shocked silence out the passenger window as they neared their target.

"Booth…"

He didn't respond.

"She's alive. You have to hold onto that right now," Doggett implored. "You need to hold it together for just a little longer. We've got a job to do."

"Fuck you, Doggett," Booth snarled, although he knew Doggett was right. And he _would_ pull it together. The enormity of the threat necessitated his presence, and he would do his job and do it well.

And then, once he did his duty to save the lives of millions of Americans, he would begin to set things right for Bones.

"It wasn't your fault, Booth. You didn't know. None of us did…"

"How did you not recognize her voice?" Booth snapped.

Doggett shook his head in sorrow. "I wasn't there. I wasn't close enough to hear. And she never identified herself."

"Yeah, she was about to, but, oh, that's right, I shot her. I fucking _shot_ her…" Booth ground out as he slammed his fist on the dash.

Doggett drove in silence for a few seconds, lost in thought. "We don't have all the pieces to the puzzle yet. So much of it doesn't make sense yet."

Booth didn't respond, and Doggett didn't press him. He cleared his throat. "So… any word from the CIA yet? Have the drones found our bus?"

"No," Booth answered, his voice low. "The Capitol and the White House are being evacuated, but if it's a nuke, there's not much time to get out of the potential fallout radius."

"Yeah, well, the thing is, that bus could be anywhere – it doesn't have to be in front of the Capitol to obliterate Washington. If they're going for the symbolic, the Capitol makes sense. But it's not necessary for their cause."

Doggett turned into the Capitol security gate and flashed his credentials, then navigated his way down the narrow drive near the visitor center, where the evacuation effort was being coordinated.

Finley met them on the sidewalk, and met Booth's eyes with a sympathetic look as he stepped out of the car.

"Booth, I'm sorry you have to be here, but your our – and the FBI's – best man for the job."

"What have you found, Finley?"

Booth's tone was gruff, and Finley nodded in understanding. "An informant gave us the name of a mechanic who works for the D.C. school district in their bus barn. Has radical leanings, apparently. He's gone missing, but a raid on his apartment uncovered some items that look suspiciously like detonation devices. They're still pulling data from his hard drives, but it looks like he's had some communication with someone lower-level in al-Qadhi's organization."

"Any missing buses?"

"No. But two were pulled from service and swapped with replacements from his bus barn a few hours ago, presumably put into service for the afternoon routes. We're cross referencing those buses now to find out what routes they've been assigned to."

Doggett looked grim. "This is a pretty wide net to cast. Our best lead – Dr. Brennan – mentioned the Capitol as the target. What's the plan?"

"We've got the perimeter being patrolled. The good thing is that a school bus is a pretty easy target to spot. If one comes this way, we'll find it. In the meantime, we'll be running the operation from here. I'm waiting on a call from my agent to update me on the status of those buses."

Just then, Booth's phone chirped in his pocket.

"Booth."

"Booth, it's Hodgins." He paused, as if unsure of how to proceed.

"What?" His tone was sharp, and he knew the bug man didn't deserve to be the target of his angst, but he didn't care. He didn't have time for emotional bullshit at the moment.

"I'm…God, I just can't believe any of this," Hodgins stammered.

"Yeah, listen, we're sort of in the middle of an operation right now, so…"

"Yeah, okay, Booth." Her voice was kind, forgiving even. She was giving him a wide berth, and he knew it. "So, Angela wanted me to call you – she's on her way to the hospital right now. Said that she will call you as soon as she hears anything at all. Man, I know it's killing you not being there…"

Booth swallowed back the rising bile at the thought. "Yeah. Yeah, it is."

"I'm sorry, man, I really am."

Silence reigned for a moment, and both men cleared their throats to fill the awkward gap.

"So," said Hodgins finally. "The sort-of-good news is that she found your buses. They _were _scheduled to pick kids up at the Convention Center."

"Okay. What happened?"

"One of them did pick up a load of kids at the curb. It cleared the Bomb Squad checkpoint and left with the kids just before 4:15. The other one parked three blocks away and the kids walked to meet it."

Booth went pale at the realization. "So you're telling me…"

"Yeah. Booth, that bus conveniently stayed clear of all checkpoints. And now, it's full of third-graders. And…it's scheduled to pass by the Capitol on its route in about fifteen minutes."

_A/N: Oh, crap. Is Booth going to pull a Keanu?_

_I know you're wanting to find out what's up with Brennan…. We'll get to her next chapter. We have a bus bomb to catch first. _

_running off to my writing desk once again_

_/authors note_


	33. Chapter 33

_Hey y'all!_

_SO sorry for the delay… been doing lots of traveling, dealing with family stuff, and then last week, my uncle and my dear grandmother passed away within two days of each other. Needless to say, it's been a rough month. _

_Writing has been a nice respite, and since I'm in airports all day, so I have just finished up this chapter and am working on the next. I REALLY want to wrap this thing up, and this chapter was the biggest obstacle for me… I wasn't sure where I wanted to go with it until yesterday._

_Thanks so much to some1tookmyname, who read through and gave some great suggestions, as well as much reassurance._

_Thanks for sticking with me and for all your wonderful comments and messages about this story. As soon as I post this, I've got two glorious hours to work on chapter 34. Yahoo._

Chapter 33

The clouds gathered as the afternoon drew to a close, and the eastern horizon billowed black as an epic springtime storm loomed. The trees glowed neon against the black ink of sky, casting an eerie light on the Capitol grounds. Booth stood on the sidewalk on Constitution Avenue, the wind whipping through his standard-issue CIA windbreaker with increasing force, and watched as Doggett paced with his phone to his ear, cupping his hand around the mouthpiece to keep the wind from drowning out his instructions to the party on the other end of the call.

The bus was due to pass them within minutes. The CIA had redirected a drone to the area just moments before, but Booth had not heard from his analysts yet to confirm whether or not the plane had locked onto a visual - or if the plane was even in the area, for that matter. They had opted not to set up roadblocks until the bus was in their sights – the resulting gridlock at rush hour would only cause more headaches and possible loss of life. Better to keep traffic moving and stop the suspicious vehicle in the hopes of disarming it as quickly as possible.

A blast of wind rushed at Booth's back like a wrecking ball, and he took a steadying step as he watched Doggett pocket his phone and walked back towards him.

"Just heard from Sweets," Doggett said. "Apparently Jeremy Greenwald got an email – one of his hacker friends went missing shortly after we picked up Jeremy. There had been correspondence between his friend and one of the al-Qadhi's men – the same one Jeremy had been planning to meet. Sounds like Jeremy's friend actually followed through and met up with them."

"What does this mean for us?" Booth asked.

Doggett squinted at the approaching storm. "If his friend actually did program the device, which is a strong possibility, Jeremy might be able to help disable it. They were roommates for a while, and Jeremy knows this kid's coding pretty well."

"So Greenwald's on his way here?"

"Should be here in five minutes. Heard anything from your people?"

"No." Booth unconsciously glanced at his phone's screen. "It was iffy that they'd even get the drone redirected in time."

Just then, a voice crackled in their ears. "Visual on a school bus approaching the intersection. In heavy traffic. It's about a block up from where you are."

Booth nodded at the officers on the sidewalk on the other side of the street as the first drops of rain began to pelt him in fat, lazy _splats_. The bomb squad and SWAT team, both of which were out of sight like actors waiting for their cue, swiftly took their places on the sidewalk as the bright yellow vehicle came into view, standing out like a beacon against the midnight-colored sky.

The traffic was thick and the bus was traveling at a near crawl. As it neared, Booth and Doggett, along with several SWAT members, jogged to meet it. Doggett flagged down the driver, flashing his badge with one hand and sweeping his other arm toward the sidewalk, an entreaty to pull to the side of the road.

At first, the driver didn't respond. The rain was falling steadily now; it was impossible to see the driver's face through the downpour. The bus seemed to hesitate for a moment, but the driver made no move to stop. Doggett rushed to the driver's window and slammed his badge against the pane, banging on it with his other hand.

"FBI! Pull the vehicle over!"

Booth stepped out into the street directly in front of the bus, his gun drawn but at his side. Two SWAT members took their positions flanking either side of the bus, and two more appeared from the shadows of a nearby building and then disappeared around the back of the bus.

The driver's expression suddenly changed from confusion to fear as he realized he was surrounded, and he began to nod and maneuver the bus to the curb. Faces of third graders pressed against the windows in unison, their eyes wide in expressions ranging from curiosity to fear at the sudden swarm of armed officers flanking the vehicle.

As soon as the bus was at the curb, Booth burst through the doors, not waiting for the driver to open them fully, and bounded up the short set of stairs, badge extended in front of him. He passed the driver and stood in the aisle, keenly aware of the forty sets of small eyes that were now glued to the important-looking man in the dark, rain-soaked windbreaker.

Booth saw a flash of motion in his periphery as Doggett slipped into the vehicle and yanked the driver from his seat and onto the street in one swift motion. Booth took a deep breath and grinned, willing his adrenaline down so as not to alarm the kids.

"Alright, you guys! We're having a little trouble with the bus, so I'm going to need everyone to get out and follow these nice policemen out to the sidewalk. Ok? Let's see if we can do it quickly and quietly. Ready?"

Lightning flashed through the cabin of the bus suddenly, followed almost immediately by a deafening explosion of thunder. The back door was thrown open and two members of the team began emptying the vehicle, ushering the kids to a safer location as quickly as possible, a task made trickier because of the storm outside, which had now grown to a hurricane-sized tempest.

Minutes later, the bus was empty, the street had been cordoned off, and Booth had swept the interior of the bus twice. Nothing.

He was in the process of checking again when Doggett appeared in the doorway.

"It's under the engine. Bomb squad found it."

_Shit. _

Booth followed Doggett outside and immediately spotted two pairs of uniformed legs sticking out from under the front of the vehicle. Another streak of lightning ripped though the air. He dropped to his knees and ducked his head beneath the bus's frame, grateful for the temporary shelter it provided.

"Here, sir." A bomb squad tech directed his attention to a suitcase-sized metal box that had been welded to the underside of the motor mount.

"Are you sure that's it?"

"Yeah. That's not supposed to be here. We'll know more about what we're dealing with once we get past the front panel."

"How long?"

"Five, ten minutes. We're going to try to cut through it with a torch - it's welded shut – but first we have to use a portable sonar to locate the components. There's a circuit board of some kind on the back side – here," he motioned, pointing to the far side of the box.

Booth nodded and pulled himself out from under the bus, and into the rain once more, trading places with another tech who was moving in with more equipment. The first of the news helicopters had begun to circle overhead. More would come; like vultures, they had a way of multiplying at the scent of blood or danger. It was only a matter of time before the news vans arrived.

An FBI-issued car pulled to a stop across the street, and two agents stepped out, followed by a very timid-looking Jeremy Greenwald. Doggett met them halfway and escorted him to Booth.

"They'll be ready for him in a few minutes," Booth advised.

Doggett nodded. "Jeremy, you sure you can do this?"

Jeremy looked at his feet. "I have to. Damn. I can't believe Marshall would do this…"

Doggett clapped him on the shoulder. "He may not have. But we just have to be sure. And if he did, it sounds like you're the best man for the job."

Just then, one of the techs emerged from beneath the bus and stood. His face was dark as he approached the trio.

"Sir? It's – it's like nothing I've ever seen before."

"What does that mean?" asked Booth.

"It's – it's definitely a nuke. Pretty big for a suitcase device. If it goes, it's going to take out most of the city. We can't get to the core – it's too risky to try and torch the thing open."

"So how do we disarm it?"

"First we have to disable the timer, which looks like it's going to be a bitch. It's some sort of Arduino-based device, but there's lots of coding involved, and without knowing what language they used, we'll have to reverse-engineer. Luckily, it's on the outside of the box and we can get to it with a USB and a laptop. Once we disable the timer, then we go inside and remove the neutron trigger. Then, there's a conventional explosive to deal with – that's the first part to go 'boom' and might be pretty unstable depending on what they used. Lastly, we separate the U-235 masses. If they get too close to each other, they will flood the area with radiation."

Doggett whistled softly. "So… lots of steps that could potentially go very, very wrong…"

"…and not a lot of time," finished the tech. "First, we gotta figure out that Arduino component."

Jeremy brightened immediately. "Arduino? I can do that. Seriously? That's the best they could do?"

The tech frowned. "Well, yeah. But without the right language…."

Doggett waved him off. "Get the kid in there. He can do this."

Jeremy nodded and took a step towards the bus and then addressed the tech. "Did you check to see if interrupts are enabled?"

The tech shook his head. "Already checked. They've been disabled."

"Should be pretty easy to enable, right?"

"We don't have much time. To enable interrupts, and you also have to enable the right interrupt mask, too. It's not your basic C or C++ code…"

Jeremy rolled his eyes and disappeared under the bus, mumbling about "noobs" as he went.

Doggett gave him a few seconds to get settled, then knelt down next to his feet.

"So, this look familiar to you?"

Jeremy coughed and re-situated himself. "Yeah. I can probably interrupt it easily enough… I just don't know how much time we have, man."

"There's no readout?"

Jeremy snorted. "You watch too much TV, bro. These things don't countdown to zero in big red letters. It's not like MacGyver."

"You're an annoying ass, you know that? So what do you need to get this thing fixed?"

"Basic laptop. Mine would be best."

Doggett stood. "Sorry… it's still being torn apart by our techs back at the Bureau. I'll have Agent Smith hook you up with his."

Jeremy emerged from beneath the bus and stood, and within minutes, a laptop had been hooked into the device's USB port and Jeremy's fingers were flying over the keyboard in an attempt to assess the device using the software-based interface. Agent Smith, the lead agent on the team, stood by with an umbrella to shield the laptop.

Ten feet away, Booth paced on the sidewalk, sheltered by the awning of an abandoned shop. His stomach was in knots, and he made a desperate but increasingly futile attempt to focus on the task at hand. He wanted to punch a wall, kick someone's ass… anything that would release the nervous energy coursing through him.

He felt a hand on his shoulder and spun to meet Doggett's firm gaze.

"What?" he spat.

"Go to the hospital. I've got it covered here."

"No."

"Booth. It's okay. We've got the bus."

"You heard the tech. Too many variables. I need to see this through." Booth's jaw was set and his gaze was steel.

Doggett lowered his voice. "Booth, look, you've got a kid. You've got Dr. Brennan. You've still got unfinished business. Go be with your partner."

"She's not my partner," he growled. "If she even wakes up, why the hell would she want me within fifty square miles of her? I'm as toxic to her as that radiation will be if we don't get this thing disarmed."

"Agent Booth, I've had a chance to get to know her over these past few months, and I think I've got a pretty good read on her. Trust me… she'd want you there."

"Not going to happen. Don't you get it? I don't have the right to see her. I've done enough. Fuck, I've pretty much destroyed her life! She's better off with me gone," Booth growled as he turned and stalked back into the rain towards the bus.

"So running away is the answer? Didn't that cause enough problems for you?" Doggett called after him.

Booth stopped dead in his tracks and whipped around, his eyes flashing angrily as he barreled down on Doggett. Booth's forearm met Doggett's throat, and Doggett suddenly found himself pinned against the plate glass door at his back.

"Shut. The. Fuck. Up." Booth spat, his breath hot on Doggett's face. "You son of a bitch! Don't you fucking dare…"

"_Shit!"_

Both agents froze as Jeremy's panicked exclamation cut through the tension. "Shit… shit… shit!"

Doggett shoved past Booth and was at Jeremy's side within seconds. "What?"

"I just finally got into the coding on this thing. He not only disabled the interrupt sequence, he encrypted the language and it's going to take a while to crack it."

"Can you do it?"

"Yeah, but that's not the problem…"

"What's the problem?"

"I just tapped into the timer sequence. We have less than fifteen minutes before this thing detonates."

############

Five minutes later, Booth was wearing a groove in the sidewalk while on the phone with Finley, Doggett was on a call with the FBI, and Jeremy was working on the code with increasingly trembling hands. Bomb squad members worked under the bus to try and penetrate the metal box without disturbing the core or the neuron trigger.

"Bam! Got it!" cried Jeremy. Booth and Doggett both quickly ended their calls and joined him, looking over his shoulder at the mess of code on the laptop's screen.

"You stopped the timer?" The relief in Doggett's voice was palpable.

"Yeah! It was tricky, but I remembered that Marshall uses this one particular line of code – sort of like his trademark…" The excitement in Jeremy's voice trailed off abruptly. "Oh….no. No, no, no. Shit. NO!"

"What - what?" Booth asked.

"It's not supposed to be doing this… oh… _shit_!"

"Jeremy!" Doggett shouted.

"The code – Marshall must have embedded some sort of malicious code – a virus…" he was pounding on the keyboard now. "It's started another timer sequence, and I'm locked out…"

Smith, the lead tech who had been standing nearby, nodded grimly. "I was afraid of this. We're going to have to pour a conducting fluid into the mechanism. It's not ideal, but it will neutralize the device…"

"What does that mean, 'not ideal?'" Doggett asked, afraid of the answer.

"It means," Booth answered, "it'll still explode, but the full-out fission reaction won't complete. Whoever delivers the conducting fluid will be dead, but at least the million or so other lives won't be lost."

"How much time do we have?" Doggett demanded.

"Ten minutes…_ish_," Jeremy answered. His face was the color of ash.

"It'll take at least that to drill into the casing in the proper spot in order to deliver the fluid," Smith said. "It's going to take two men – one to operate the sonar and locate the core, and the other to do the drilling. That's provided we get the conducting fluid in time. It's on its way from Oakridge – should be here any minute."

"Okay," said Booth. "I want everyone clear. How big will the blast radius be if we're able to deliver the conducting fluid in time?"

Smith considered for a moment. "From what we've been able to determine from the sonar, the basic explosive device is pretty large – I'd say we'll need to clear the block."

Booth nodded. "You comfortable with the operation and the schematics of the device enough to guide me through the process?"

Smith blanched. "Well, yeah, but…"

"No way in hell, Booth," Doggett interrupted.

Booth ignored him. "Alright, listen up!" he began, rounding up the bomb squad and other agents in the area. "Clear the area, now. We need you to pull back and cordon off the area – at least a two-block perimeter. Move!"

Overhead, a helicopter approached. Smith squinted at it. "DoD. They're here with the conducting fluid."

"Booth!" Doggett shouted over the growing noise of the chopper. Booth ignored him once more. "Damn it, Booth!" Doggett fumed, grabbing him by the collar and finally gaining his full attention. "What the hell are you doing?"

"Doggett, get the hell out of here," Booth seethed.

"Booth, I'm not letting you do this! This is completely reckless. You're signing your own death certificate – for what? There are trained techs for this. Brennan will never forgive me!"

"Make sure she's safe. I'm not letting anyone else die on my watch. We have less than five minutes, John. Get the hell out of here."

"Fuck you, Booth. Think of your kid…"

"I AM thinking of my kid! I'm making sure he lives to see tomorrow. Now, I don't have time to argue with you. Get out - or stay and help me - but shut the fuck up and let me do my job!"

They stared each other down for a few moments, and then, finally, Doggett released him with a shove and cursed.

He watched the helicopter as it set down gently on the top of a nearby building, then jogged to the doorway to meet the agent who was carrying the fluid. He tried to breathe past the growing tightness in his chest as he watched Booth confer with Agent Smith for a few moments, and then he saw the two of them disappear under the bus to begin drilling into the casing of the device.


	34. Chapter 34

_Hey! Look! Another chapter! _

_Didn't want to leave y'all hanging for too long. Home stretch now, guys! _

_Thanks for reading and all your lovely comments and well wishes!_

_Enjoy!_

Chapter 34

Booth and Smith lay under the bus, working silently but quickly, fully conscious of the clock as it counted down the limited time they had left to accomplish their task. The rain had let up, but both men were soaked from head to toe, and the air was cold. Booth held the drill with frozen fingers as Smith guided him via sonar as he drilled into the portion of the box furthest from the volatile moving parts, any of which could trigger a nuclear explosion if jostled or bumped the wrong way.

"Almost there," Smith said. "Keep a steady hand. It's cramped quarters in there. We're talking millimeters. If you hit that neuron trigger, it'll start the chain reaction."

Booth said nothing as he eased the drill bit further into the casing. Despite the cold, a sheen of sweat covered his brow.

"Good," Smith encouraged. "I can see the tip of the drill bit now. Just a few more revolutions and you're done. Once we're in, I'll need you to hand me the conducting fluid and get the hell out. When I pour it, it'll be about ten seconds before it blows."

Booth concentrated on the last few millimeters of the operation. Suddenly he was aware of Doggett's feet next to the bumper of the bus, right next to his ear. A few seconds later, his face appeared as he knelt down and handed Booth the canister of conducting fluid.

"Jeremy says we've got four minutes," he said, his eyes drilling into Booth's, heavy with meaning.

"Everyone clear?" Booth asked, turning back to the drill and avoiding Doggett's stare.

"Yeah." He paused. "Booth…"

"Get out of here, Doggett."

"Booth!"

"I'm coming. I just need to finish up here with Smith."

"Why can't we do this robotically?"

Smith answered. "No time. We have less than four minutes. It'll take much longer than that for a mechanical object to hit its mark – that much precision takes too much time."

The men were silent as the gravity of the task hung in the air.

Booth was the first to speak. "Go, John. You have to go. Now."

Doggett nodded somberly and drew in a deep breath. "Agent Smith." He paused, unsure of what to say. "Thank you."

Smith nodded as he consulted the screen. "Okay. We're in. Time for you to clear the area, Doggett."

Doggett straightened, and then hesitated a moment. "Hurry up, Booth." He hesitated, waiting for a confirmation of Booth's exit, but Booth remained silent as he set down the drill and fixed on the screen before him. Finally, Doggett's feet disappeared from Booth's periphery.

Smith looked over at Booth. "Okay. We'll give him a minute to get out of the blast zone. You uncap the canister and then get the hell out of here. Got it?"

Booth nodded.

The silence that descended on them as they waited was leaden, and the next several seconds that passed were painful. There was nothing left to say.

Smith's radio crackled, piercing their somber vigil. "_All clear. Three minutes till nuclear detonation_."

Smith drew a steadying breath, then looked over at Booth and nodded, his eyes earnest.

Booth met the younger agent's eyes with a steely look. "I'm doing this. Get out of here."

Smith's eyes widened. "The hell you are, Booth. You've got a kid. Get the fuck out of here."

"I'm not leaving."

"Booth. I'm not letting you do this…"

"Smith, just shut the fuck up and get out of here!" Booth demanded, his voice rising. "Now!"

Smith's jaw clenched. "Damn you, Booth. Damn you to hell. I am NOT letting you do this," he cried, and his arm disappeared at his side. When it reappeared, Booth was staring down the muzzle of the agent's gun. "Go, Booth. Let me do my job! Get the fuck out of here!"

Booth laughed. "I'm about to blow myself up. You think a gun in my face is going to scare me?"

"Booth. _I'm_ blowing this thing. I've made my peace with God. Now, I can explode this bomb after I shoot you, and I'll die a guilty man… or you can leave and let me die with a clean conscience. Which one is it going to be? Because either way, I'm going to die today. And if you don't hand me that fucking fluid and get the hell out of my way, a lot more people are going to get vaporized, because the clock is ticking."

"Then we do it together." Booth uncapped the canister.

Smith took the canister from him, gave him a look, and shook his head.

"Sorry, Booth."

Suddenly, a pair of hands grabbed Booth's ankles and yanked forcefully, dragging him from beneath the bus. When he cleared the undercarriage, he saw Doggett standing over him, and before he had a chance to protest, Doggett grabbed him by the shirt and jerked him violently to his feet. "No way in hell, Booth!" Doggett growled as shoved Booth face-first into the side of the bus. "No fucking way!" He twisted Booth's arms behind him, cuffed him, and began to drag him across the street.

Booth sputtered and cursed as he twisted violently against his restraints, but Doggett's adrenaline-fueled determination outmatched Booth.

"Don't make me shoot your ass, Agent Booth. Just move, dammit!" He gave Booth another shove to emphasize his point.

"_One minute_," came the disembodied voice over the radio.

"Dammit!" muttered Doggett. He hurried Booth into a nearby building and out the back, pushing him towards a construction dumpster at the back of the lot. "You wanna cooperate with me, Booth, or you wanna get us both killed?"

Booth finally gave in, and the two men ducked behind the large metal container.

Smith's voice came over the radio. "_Administering the fluid now_."

"Roger that," Doggett said softly into the radio. "God be with you, Agent Smith."

Doggett shoved Booth into the narrow gap between the dumpster and the ground, and then followed, shielding him with his body. For several seconds, they lay in silence, not breathing, the air around them eerily still.

And then it came: the deafening explosion, followed by an earth-shattering concussion that obliterated every window and rocked the ground beneath them. The searing fireball expanded outward, incinerating the buildings adjacent to the bus and igniting several others on the outer edges of the blast zone. As the shockwaves died away, silence reigned for a few milliseconds, and then, shards of metal, glass, and flaming shrapnel rained down around them, pelting the ground violently.

And just like that, it was over. Agent Smith had accomplished his mission.

##############

Booth dragged himself through the door of his apartment shortly after midnight, stashed his sidearm in the safe, and grabbed a bottle of whiskey and a glass from the dry bar. Collapsing onto the couch, he uncapped the whiskey, poured himself a double, and tossed it back.

He was shattered. After the detonation, the hours that followed had been busy with canvassing, cordoning, cleanup. Coordinating with emergency services as the fires were extinguished, buildings were searched for casualties, and a perimeter was set up around the massive crater that now filled most of the street just a block from the Capitol. Paperwork. Debriefs with Finley, Hacker, local PD. When it was all over, he'd seen Doggett on the other side of the cordon, cell phone to his ear. When his phone began to ring at that exact moment, and Doggett's name appeared on the screen, Booth hit "ignore" and slipped away into the shadows. He couldn't deal with Doggett anymore tonight.

He poured another glass and gulped it down. He closed his eyes and fought the barrage of images that swirled there. Smith. Doggett. School bus. Parker.

Bones.

_Shit._

His eyes flew open. He filled the glass again and tossed it back.

The buses. The children.

A lone woman in a burqa.

Her sky-colored eyes as she pulled back the veil.

He poured again. Gulped it down. It burned his nose and throat. Good.

The chestnut of her hair. Her profile.

In his crosshairs.

Her blood on his shirt.

Fuck.

Another glass filled, then emptied.

He leaned forward and buried his head in his hands, swallowing the lump that had formed in his throat, waiting for the seductive fingers of intoxication to drag him away to oblivion.

How had he fucked things up this badly?

Pour. Gulp.

Smith was dead. Bones was probably dead. How many more would die because of him?

Pour. Gulp.

He'd killed Bones.

He had no idea how he was going to live with this…live _through_ this. He didn't want to.

It was too much. Tonight, he needed to disappear.

Pour. Gulp.

The room began to spin, and he leaned back and let it take him.

###########

The pounding on his front door jolted him awake twenty minutes later. He stood before he was fully conscious. The room was spinning. He staggered to the door and looked through the peephole.

Unable to see his visitor, he pulled the door open an inch and peered through the crack, his vision blurry. He was nearly knocked over by the force of someone pushing into his apartment, and he stumbled backwards to try and catch himself before falling on his ass.

"You're drunk."

Angela stood before him, hands on her hips, her eyes puffy and her face blotchy from half a day of tears.

Booth slammed the door and stumbled to the couch, flopping onto his back and covering his face with both his arms.

"You don't…you don't get to do this, Booth." Her words were deathly quiet and filled with ice. "You don't get to hide."

He ignored her, and in two steps, she was standing over him. She stood there in silence for so long that he finally peered up at her blearily.

She was still standing, arms hugging her body, silent sobs wracking her lithe frame, face contorted in agony. He set his jaw and sat up, refusing to look at her again.

She sucked in two gasping breaths. "Booth…" came her feeble whisper.

"Angela," he ground out. "Don't."

She sobbed silently for a minute more, then drew in a ragged breath and sat tentatively next to him.

He stood. He needed distance. His mind was underwater, but a few synapses managed to fire - enough to realize that if Angela was here, and no longer at the hospital with Bones – well, it wasn't good. He stumbled towards the bedroom. At least he could shut the door. If she couldn't get the words out, it wasn't real.

"She woke up, Booth."

He was halfway into his room. _What_? He fell against the doorframe, silently willing her to repeat the words he was sure he'd misheard.

He turned around. She was still sitting on the couch, her back to him. He couldn't read her. He waited.

"She…she woke up," Angela said an eternity later. "All she said was your name. That was it." She began sobbing again.

Booth's heart dropped to his feet. The room was still spinning. The doorframe failed him, and he slid to the floor. His eyes blurred with tears. He held his breath and fought them back.

"Angela," he rasped. "She's…?" He couldn't put words to the question. He felt his throat clamp shut. He felt a gaping pit forming in his chest.

Angela stood and spun to face him, her eyes wide. "Oh, god, sweetie. Oh, god." She rushed to him and dropped to her knees. He felt her hands on his face. He couldn't see her through the blinding tears.

"Booth!" she whispered sharply. "She's alive. She's alive!" She shook him gently. "Oh, god, I thought you knew. I thought Doggett told you…." She took him in her arms then, and he let go, the sobs buffeting his body like a tempest.

Angela clung to him until the storm subsided. After a few moments, she pulled back and took his face in her hands again. "Booth. She's…she's unconscious again. They got the…wound fixed. They got her stable," she breathed in and out raggedly a few more times, as if willing herself to press onward. "But they won't know what type of…brain activity…or how much…till tomorrow."

Booth leaned back against the doorframe and scrubbed a hand through his hair, just staring at Angela, still unsure how to process the information.

"I'm sorry, Booth. I came to yell at you – I heard about what you tried to do. It pissed me off. I'm so angry at you!" Angela sat back on her haunches. "It was an accident, dammit! How could you have known it was her? How?"

Booth's head was swimming. "I _shot_ her, Ange," he said thickly.

"But you were doing your job! How were you supposed to know they'd made her a decoy?"

Booth just shook his head and regarded the wood slats on the floor.

"So you go on a suicide mission because you can't forgive yourself?"

No answer.

Angela sighed. "Booth. You're a complete disaster. Go take a shower. Sober up. Then, I'm taking you to see her."

Booth's eyes flew to her face, a mixture of fear and anger in his expression. "No way. No way in hell."

"It's not open for discussion." Angela's words were slow and measured, as if addressing a child. "I don't care what you think or what you want. This isn't about you."

"Which is exactly why I won't go!" he spat. "The best thing I can do for her is stay away."

"Oh, cut the crap, Booth! Just cut that shit out!" She stood and stomped into his bathroom and turned on the shower, then reappeared in the doorway. "You don't get to be the victim. Every problem _you've_ caused these past few months have been a result of your running away from her." She was suddenly standing over him. "The only one that can fix this is _you_! She needs you. She's asking for you. Now," she growled, "get the hell off your ass and clean yourself up – and then go. fix. her!" She bent down and grabbed him by the arm, jerking him to his feet.

Booth wasn't sure if it was exhaustion, fear, or resignation that caused his compliance, but he sighed, trudged into the bathroom, and shut the door heavily, leaning against it, happy to be hidden from Angela's laser-beam eyes.

His stomach hurt and his head was pounding.

Bones was alive. She'd said his name.

Suddenly, he couldn't wait to see her.


	35. Chapter 35

Chapter 35

The hospital was silent, save for the hollow footsteps of Booth and Angela that echoed in the stark hallway. They hadn't spoken a word since leaving Booth's apartment. Booth's heart was in his throat, and he fought the nausea his adrenaline produced. He made it a point to focus instead on the room numbers as they walked the long trek to Brennan's room.

_9116…9117…9118…_

They rounded a corner, and Booth caught a glimpse of Cam's back in the small waiting room a few feet ahead. He stopped abruptly and ducked backwards out of sight, pulling Angela with him.

"I don't want to see them."

"Booth," Angela said, her eyes earnest. "These are your friends. Your _family_. Let them – let _us _– be here for you. No more running, okay? No one blames you."

"Yeah, I know, but I'm just… I'm just not in the mood for questions…or…you know…" He didn't want their pity. He couldn't bear their tears. His were enough.

Angela considered him for a moment, then nodded. "Okay." She smiled. "I'll handle it."

She stepped around the corner for a moment, and Booth could hear sharp whispers as she shooed the squints from the waiting room. A few minutes later, she returned.

He looked at her inquisitively, and she smiled. "I just told them that they needed to go home now. They were ready. They've been here since Bren got here, so they just needed permission to leave, I think."

Booth nodded and breathed in a calming breath.

"You ready?" Angela hooked her hand under his arm. He nodded again.

"Okay. I'll be right out here. I'm not leaving." She led him around the corner and halfway down the hall, stopping in front of a glassed-in room. A curtain was drawn around the bed. He could see the slight rise in the sheets at the end of the bed where her feet lay.

Booth wanted to vomit, melt into the floor, run away. Angela squeezed his arm in reassurance. He sucked in another breath and then stepped into the room.

The sight of her nearly brought him to his knees.

The first thing he noticed was her considerably smaller frame. Weeks of captivity had not been kind to her. Her sallow cheeks, the dark, sunken circles that rimmed her eyes, and the gaunt, haunted look she held even in slumber spoke volumes to him of the horrors to which she'd been subjected. He knew the look well. He'd worn it once, too.

Tentacles of tubes and wires and bandages took over most of her body, a leviathan that threatened to swallow her whole. A ventilator sucked and puffed away near her bedside, and through his tears, he watched her chest expand and contract in tandem with it.

The bandage on her head belied the devastation that lay beneath. Now, the ugly, gaping wound was neatly tucked away, just a white patch in the midst of her chestnut hair that was splayed out on the pillow. It mocked him, and he nearly turned and fled the room as he remembered all the blood - all the damage he'd caused.

A sob rose from deep within him, and he clenched his teeth to stave it off. For a few moments, he was paralyzed. He wanted to pray, but the words wouldn't come. He wanted desperately to touch her, but he'd lost the right.

A chair was positioned next to the bed, abandoned by the last teary-eyed squint who'd kept vigil at her side, and so, at a loss for what else to do, he sat. Fiddled with his poker chip. Studied a nick in the ugly blue-white tile under his foot.

"I'm sorry, Bones." The words flew out before he'd known it, and they were followed by a wave of tears. "Oh, god, Bones. I'm so, so sorry…"

The dam broke, and his words trailed off, replaced by choking sobs that wracked his body, doubling him over. He covered his head with his hands, pulling at his hair as he wept, lost in the grief that flooded him.

"I'm sorry…I'm so, so sorry…"

He wept for the injustice of it all. He wept for himself – his regret, his blind selfishness, his loss of her more than a year ago when she rejected him, his ridiculous attempt to move on with Hannah, and how stupid he'd been to run. He'd been running ever since. She was here because he'd run. He'd always been the one who kept her safe – until he ran.

He wept for them – for their missed chances. For the bond they shared – the bond he still felt, even though he'd made her a stranger to him over the past year.

He wept for her – for the unfair hand that life had dealt her. She didn't deserve this. She'd suffered enough devastation, enough carnage. She deserved another chance – she deserved some peace.

"You have to wake up, Bones. You have to be okay. Please…"

###############

He didn't leave her side for a week. The squints attended to him in shifts, bringing food, flowers, and well wishes, staying only long enough to offer their support and care, giving him precedence over Brennan's watch-care.

The doctors didn't tell him much at first; he wasn't family. At some point over the past year, she'd removed him as her medical proxy, a fact that cracked him in two when a scowling nurse had finally told him. Eventually, at Max's consent, and because the hospital staff had finally accepted his constant presence in the room, they began to communicate her prognosis as they observed her condition.

They said she was improving. There was evidence of brain function. His bullet had grazed her left parietal lobe - the best of all locations for a traumatic brain injury - and the doctors explained to Booth that recovery would likely be difficult, but attainable. She'd probably have difficulty with mathematics and writing, and would most likely suffer left-right confusion, but these would resolve over time and with therapy.

However, the bullet was not the main cause for concern – she had suffered a class IV hemorrhage at the scene, and had stopped breathing. The amount of damage to her brain due to lack of oxygen would not be measureable until she woke up.

If she woke up.

The first several days plodded on, and Booth remained at her side, holding vigil. Her stillness, her artificial breathing, her emptiness – it was as if her essence – her spirit – had left her body. He could tell that she just wasn't "in there."

In the midst of it all, there were glimmers of hope. Her vitals were improving. Her oxygen levels were up. The breathing tube was removed when it was determined that she was able to breathe on her own.

Every night, he'd keep watch late into the night, until he couldn't hold his head up any longer. Then, he'd squeeze her hand, wish her good night, and make himself as comfortable as he could on the foldout chair next to her bed. For nine long days, he kept to this routine. For nine long days, she remained nonresponsive.

On the tenth day, when he bent down to kiss her forehead and bid her goodnight, he thought he saw a flutter of movement in her eyelids.

On the twelfth day, when he told her he loved her, her lips moved. The movement was so slight that he almost missed it.

On the fourteenth day, when he took her hand in his and prayed to God for a sign, she squeezed his hand.

_She squeezed his hand._

And when he looked at her sleeping face, he saw it. Something was different. She was no longer an empty shell.

She was coming home.

###############

Darkness.

So black, like pitch. It hemmed her in on all sides.

On occasion, she had the vague notion to find her way out, but mostly she was too tired and too weak to care, and she surrendered back into the nothingness. Deep unto deep.

_Just let me rest here awhile…_

A voice, faint and familiar, came to her as if on a breeze from a far off place. She was unable to attach words to the sound, but it was enough. The voice carried to her every so often, strengthening her, soothing her. Like water to her soul.

Warmth on her hand, like sunshine; at first, a tiny pinprick in the black void, then growing, turning the edges to grey, casting the first shadows, then washing them away in its dazzling light as it finally broke through the last bits of fog. Sounds all around her now, mechanical and organic together.

Her hand, covered by someone else's, pulling her to the surface. She held on for dear life. It was hard to breathe - just a few more moments and she'd break the surface. Suddenly, it was so bright. She opened her eyes, tentatively, carefully, the dazzling white painful but welcome.

"_Bones?"_

The voice. So familiar. So full of comfort, of familiarity, of…home.

#####################

He'd been dozing in the chair at her bedside, holding her hand. It had been four days of desperate hope, false alarms, tiny signals – he'd barely slept for fear that he'd miss her awakening. It was dawn – of which day, he wasn't sure – and he'd only just let his eyes slip shut when he sensed a change in her breathing. The difference jerked him awake, and his eyes flew to her face just in time to see a flutter, then a sliver of blue peeking out from beneath her eyelids.

"Bones?" His voice came out a hoarse whisper, but as soon as he uttered her name, her eyes flew open. They searched the air, unseeing for a few moments, her expression at first blank, then confused.

Heart in his throat, he tried again.

"Bones."

Finally, her eyes locked on his. An eternity passed. He clutched her hand and held his breath, silently willing her back to full consciousness, but afraid of what that would mean for her. For him.

He saw something flash through her expression – recognition? Confusion? Fear? He stroked the back of her hand with his thumb. Smiled weakly. Expectantly.

She didn't smile back. Instead, her eyes filled with tears. Her face twisted into a grimace of pain, and suddenly, he realized she was weeping silently, her body wracked with sobs.

He wasn't sure what he had expected this moment to be, but it wasn't this.

He leaned in and pulled her hand to his lips. "Bones. It's okay. You're safe. Everything's okay…"

She only turned away and continued to cry.

Unsure of what to do, he maintained contact but dropped his head and remained silent in a meager attempt to give her space.

Finally, she stilled, and after a few moments, he felt her eyes on him. He looked up to see her wearing that same blank expression that he couldn't read.

She closed her eyes for a moment, as if resting, and then opened them again, returning her gaze to his face.

He stared at her stupidly for a moment before realizing that she was trying to speak. Her lips formed the words, but her voice refused to cooperate.

Water. She needed water. He snatched up the pitcher on the table near him and poured it into the plastic cup, then guided it to her lips. She took a sip and then turned away, determined to try speaking again.

He watched intently as she choked out her first word:

"_Booth."_

His breath hitched in his throat, and a torrent of tears flooded his eyes.

"Oh, god, Bones. Oh, god," he sobbed, lifting her hand to his cheek.

She waited until his tears slowed, then spoke again, still a ragged whisper: "You're here…you're…alive…"

He stared at her dumbly for a few moments. "What?"

"You…died. I saw…you…die."

"Bones…shhh. I'm not dead. I'm here," he said, a sob in his chest. "I swear to God, I'm here, and I'm not leaving. I'm not ever leaving you again. Never."

Her eyes filled with tears again, but he was pretty sure he saw the slightest smile tease the corners of her mouth.

And then her eyes slipped shut. She squeezed his hand, sighed, and settled back into sleep once again. And for the first time in a fortnight, Booth followed suit.


	36. Chapter 36

_Guys! Guys! Hi! ;)_

_Sooooo… I guess I owe everyone an apology for being gone for….yeah. A long time. Life sort of destroyed me for a while – but many things have changed and I am back! I've been frustrated by my inability to get back to this story, and I promised that I wouldn't abandon it, so I'm making good on that promise!_

_So please forgive my long absence, and know that I am already working on the next chapter…. We are almost done!_

_Thanks for the private messages and the concern and the reviews – they've really kept me going and motivate me to keep writing! _

Chapter 36

Booth awoke with a start and glanced at his watch. It was past nine – P.M., judging from the darkness of the room.

How he'd slept so long and so soundly in that position – folded in half, forehead resting on her bed – he had no clue. His neck and back protested loudly as he straightened, and he rolled his head around a few times to work out the kinks. Yawned and stretched. It was the best sleep he'd had in months, really, and he felt good.

Then he remembered: she'd awakened. They'd spoken.

She was okay. She'd smiled at him.

That smile, he knew, was indelibly printed on his soul. It would carry him for the rest of his life, whether she decided she wanted him in her world or not.

He studied her now. She was sleeping, her expression relaxed, her breathing soft and peaceful. He desperately wanted her to wake again, to get on with the conversations he knew lay ahead, to move forward in some way…but he knew she needed rest.

He stood and stretched again, then wandered to the window. Nine floors below, orderlies and nurses sat at a picnic table under a bright orange, moth-peppered floodlight, smoke from the workers' cigarettes curling upwards and disappearing into the night. (_What nurse smokes?_ he mused.) Beyond the break area lay the parking lot, and beyond that, their friends and family, scattered about the city, all of whom were waiting to hear news of Brennan's recovery.

He knew he should probably tell someone that she'd awakened. The nurses should know. Max should, too. However, he knew that as soon as the news was out, their private sanctuary would be invaded with staff and doctors, friends and family; with questions and prognoses, tears and laughter, well-wishes and heartfelt confessions.

He just wanted to freeze this moment of peacefulness with her. Once the word of her recovery was out – once the visitors started arriving – they'd have to face reality. He'd have to tell her what he did to her, before she heard it from someone else. And then, what? He'd betrayed her repeatedly over the past several months. That alone was cause for her shutting him out of her life. To find out that he'd nearly killed her – hell, he would never forgive himself. He should have known it was her. He would have known, had he been there.

He turned his attention back to the scene below and silently exhaled a prayer, heavy on his lips, and imagined it floating out into the night air, mingling with the smoke rising from beneath, then dissipating into the blackness.

################

Brennan's eyes snapped open as she suddenly became aware of a change in the room. Disoriented, she scanned her immediate surroundings, frantically trying to put pieces into place.

_Hospital. _Why? What had happened to her? Why couldn't she remember?

_Head wound. _How? She remembered only snatches: a van ride. A device strapped to her chest. A veil. What else?

A rainforest. A boat. A cult leader. His vile hands groping at her. Booth and Doggett. An explosion.

_Booth_. She reached out a hand and found the space next to her bed empty. She'd assumed he'd be there. He had been there, right? She'd heard his voice, felt his hand.

Hadn't she?

Confusion gave way to panic. _Where was he?_ She struggled, painfully trying to push herself to a more upright position, wildly searching the room, tangling herself in the maze of wires that were attached to her body.

_Oh, god_. She'd conjured his presence in her semi-consciousness. It must have been a dream. She'd only imagined his voice. He was dead - she'd seen it happen. A sob choked her, stole her breath. She fought against the restraints of the wires. He was gone…

_"Bones!"_

And suddenly, he was there.

"Bones, it's okay. Shhh…" Still disoriented, it took several seconds for her to comprehend that the warmth on her face was his hands, and the pair of eyes staring into hers belonged to him. After that, the tears blurred her vision, and she reached for him, buried her face in his chest – _Booth!_ – and wept.

Finally, she stilled, and he pulled away slightly and brushed her hair from her face, his eyes full of concern – and something else. _Fear?_

"Bones – are you – okay?"

She nodded and lay back on her pillow, still shaking. She closed her eyes for a few seconds. When she opened them again, they were wet with tears.

"B-Booth?" she whispered.

"Yeah, Bones?"

"What…what happened? Why am I here?" Her eyes searched his, desperate for an answer. "I – I can't remember…."

He smiled down at her, and she wasn't sure, but his eyes seemed sad.

"Bones. You need to rest – please. We'll talk tomorrow, I promise. The most important thing right now is to get better. Okay? Go back to sleep. I'll be right here."

She considered him for a moment, then sighed raggedly.

"Okay," she whispered. "Can you…can you just…"

He nodded, then shifted from the edge of her bed to a nearby chair, pulling it close and taking her hand in his.

"I'm right here, Bones. Get some rest now…" he soothed, stroking her forehead.

Within minutes, she drifted to sleep.

###################

She awoke again when the nurse came in the morning to change out her IV bag. Upon discovering that the patient was conscious, the nurse hastily left, and Booth braced himself for what would surely become a constant swarm of activity in the room.

And so it began. For the next twenty-four hours, Brennan's waking hours were filled with laughter, tears, and catching up with loved ones – which were also punctuated by a steady stream of doctors, specialists, nurses, tests, and therapists.

As the activity surrounding Brennan increased, so, too, did Booth's agitation. Brennan was beginning to remember pieces of her ordeal, but many gaps still remained. Angela, Max, and Sweets (who had dispensed himself with overseeing her post-trauma mental care) tried to help by filling in the blanks with what they knew: that she'd been taken out of the country, had been missing for weeks, had been held by a terrorist - and that she'd been shot. What they hadn't told her, however, was who had pulled the trigger. Though no one had discussed it in front of him, Booth knew that there was a tacit agreement among their friends to leave that part to him, if he so chose to tell it.

He retreated to the edges of the room, looking on as nurses came in and repeatedly checked her vitals. He stepped out when her friends stopped by to visit, always checking back in when they left, hoping to snatch a few minutes alone with her, but was always interrupted by another doctor. Finally, when they came to take her for an MRI, he slipped out and headed home for a few hours, agitated and desperately needing some time away to think, shower, and check in with Finley.

##############

Brennan felt Booth's absence immediately. Despite the well-meaning friends and family, she was lonely for him. She needed him – and yet, as soon as she recognized that need, she chided herself. While his presence was reassuring, and while she knew he would help her sort out the puzzling pieces of the past several weeks, something in her hindbrain nudged her. _A warning?_ No – it was more of a check, a sense that she should temper her innate trust in him, guard herself.

She'd noticed him standing off to the side, and it seemed as though something was bothering him. She had an underlying sense that there was unresolved tension between them, that a rift existed. She could not, for the life of her, pinpoint exactly why.

Later that night, as she was fighting (and losing) the battle with exhaustion in the hopes that he'd return, a soft knock on the door jolted her awake. She sat up and called out permission for the visitor to enter, then straightened her sheets, hands trembling.

The door cracked open slowly, and then Doggett appeared, oozing into the room in limb by limb. When he caught her eye and realized she was awake, a smile lit his face.

"Agent Doggett!" Brennan returned his smile. Though she hadn't seen him in weeks, his presence was calming. She marveled at the thought that, though they'd only been partners a short time, she'd grown to trust him with her life.

"Hey there, Doc. " His gleamed with genuine happiness as he assessed her. "You're looking much better than the last time I saw you. You feeling okay?"

"Yes, thank you. The pain is manageable, although I am quite tired. And I seem to have post-traumatic retrograde amnesia. I can't seem to put all the pieces together. My father and Angela have tried to help, but I find I just can't remember."

Doggett looked at her kindly for a few moments, then moved to the chair near her bedside. He sat and leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and smiled.

"Doc, look, it's okay. You can't remember because you were drugged up most of the time. Now, I'm not saying that your injuries haven't contributed to some of that, but Matthew Taylor – Jacob – used some pretty potent stuff on you. Give yourself some credit."

Brennan looked at him for a few minutes, considering his words. "I find…" she said, her eyes misting over, "I find that the hardest part is not knowing exactly what was - done to me. My memory is so confused – I don't know what is real and what I may have hallucinated. I don't know what I might have assented to under the influence of the drugs – scopolamine, according to my chart – that he administered to me."

Doggett took her hand. "Look, the doctors examined you, right? You've been poked and prodded and worked over nonstop since you've been here. They found no evidence of anything – no sexual assault – right? Trust that. And trust yourself. You've been through a lot, but you don't have to figure it all out – or snap out of it – tonight. It'll be a process, and you have a lot of people who love you and who want to walk you through this stuff." He studied her for a few moments, then cleared his throat. "How are things…with Booth?"

She sighed. "I don't even know where he is. He was here when I first woke up, but he disappeared hours ago."

"Hey, he probably just went home to change. He's been here for days without a shower or a change of clothes. I'm sure he felt like he was in the way and took the opportunity to slip out for a bit."

Brennan's eyes dropped to her lap. "I think he is still upset with me. We fought. I do remember that."

"Trust me when I say this, Doc: Booth loves you. Hell, you're all I heard about when we were trudging through that God-forsaken jungle. He was bent on finding you. It nearly killed him, but he put it all on the line for you – not to ease his guilty conscience, but because he realized what an idiot he'd been."

Brennan considered this for a moment. "But…there's more, isn't there, Agent Doggett? I am not very adept at reading people, but I get the distinct impression that he is keeping something from me."

Doggett winced. "Yeah, okay. So I guess you two haven't had the chance to…catch up yet."

"No. It's been a bit crowded in here."

"Look, I don't wanna speak for him, but I do know that he'll be back as soon as he can, and I'm confident that you two will get everything squared away. Booth's an honorable man. He cares about you. I know he won't stay away any longer than he has to."

Brennan nodded, perplexed at his words, but too exhausted to pursue the conversation further. Doggett smiled at her again and stood.

"I'm gonna let you sleep, Doc. Get some rest. Don't worry about anything but getting better, okay?" His blue eyes bore into hers in earnest, and she sighed and nodded her assent.

He strode to the door, pulled it open, and turned back to her just as she was settling back into her pillow.

"And Doctor Brennan? If for some reason Booth doesn't show up in the next day or so, I'll kick his ass. That you can count on."

###########################

Booth paced in front of his bed, his bare feet causing the ancient wood planks to creak and groan with each pass.

He'd just drifted into a semi-sleep state when his thoughts began to assault him like grenades, each one more violently heart-crushing than the next, until he finally flew out of bed and retreated to the bathroom, hoping the bright lights and a splash of cool water on his face would stop the barrage.

Instead, his fully-awake mind began to process the horrifying events of the past several weeks all over again, and his guilt rose with each remembrance. Unable to bear the sight of his reflection, he fled the bathroom and resorted to pacing.

What a damn fool he'd been. He'd nearly killed Bones. There was no way they would recover from this – once she found out what had happened, he was done. Pulling the trigger was just the icing on the cake – he'd pushed her away until they were practically strangers for the past year, then dealt the final blow by abandoning her after that disastrous night when he'd proposed to Hannah. She'd been loyal despite his insidious behavior, had pursued him, and he'd run as far and as fast as he could from her.

In their better days, he'd been her constant, having finally won her utmost trust, but because of his selfishness, he'd systematically wrecked it all. And now – now she lay in a hospital bed, having nearly been killed numerous times by others, and finally by him.

The anger took over then – at God, at himself, at the damn terrorists, at Doggett for letting her go undercover in the first place – it was all so wrong. She'd gotten involved in something way over her head, and now, she lay shattered in a hospital. God only knew how far-reaching the damage to her brain or what that would mean for her future and for the career she loved so dearly. And those responsible were in the wind….

…himself included.

He'd promised not to leave her side, and yet, here he was, pacing the floor and hiding in his bedroom like a damn coward because he didn't have the balls to face her. She didn't deserve to be abandoned again. She had genuinely seemed to want him nearby. Okay, then. He would suck it up, stay with her, offer his support, find solace in the busyness around them. She didn't need to know he had been the shooter – in fact, it was probably better for her recovery that she didn't.

Once she was back home, he knew that he'd have to own up to his mistakes – all of them – and he deserved nothing less than for her to completely cut him out of her life. As long as she was in the hospital, he could maintain the illusion that things were okay. He had to, for her sake.

With a renewed sense of purpose, he strode to his closet and dressed, and, as the sun threw its first rays of purple and gold over the city, he made his way back to her side.


	37. Chapter 37

_Well, would you look at me! Two updates in a week! Yay!_

_Honestly, your reviews are what have urged me on – thank you for all the kind words and love! Thanks for hanging with me through the long hiatus (I'm worse than the actual show, right?!)_

_A special shoutout to Jencun (because it won't let me respond to your reviews via message!): Your reviews of each chapter as you read it cracked me up! It was SO FUN to watch you ride the rollercoaster – AND it made me go back and read from the beginning again. This update is for you, because you read this beast in one sitting, and you are awesome for it!_

_Also, thanks to the always fabulous Some1tookmyname, who beta'd this for me last night between making mini valentines cakes and cleaning the house and doing other awesome supermom things. You are pinterest embodied. You are my inspiration. You rule supreme. _

Chapter 37

The hospital was buzzing with early morning activity when Booth arrived. He made his way up to Brennan's floor, and as he rounded the corner to the hallway that led to her room, he nearly collided with Max.

"Booth! Where have you been? She's been asking for you." Max eyed him warily, and Booth fought the urge to retreat.

"Yeah, sorry. I felt like I was in the way. Besides, I needed to check in with work…"

Max opened his mouth to respond, then closed it again and sighed. "Okay. Well, don't do that to her. I don't know why, but I get the feeling that she's better when you're here. Go see her. Just don't do anything that might upset her, okay? She's still weak."

Booth nodded and watched as Max strode away, his shoulders hunched ever so slightly, betraying his tough exterior. Another wave of guilt washed over Booth at the notion that his actions had caused so many people so much pain.

Sighing, he continued down the hallway until he reached her room. He approached her door cautiously, peering in and hoping that she was asleep. She wasn't.

"Booth!" Despite her pallid skin, her eyes were bright and welcoming.

Booth gave a weak smile and stepped into the room tentatively, leading with the small bouquet of flowers he'd brought.

"Daisies. Thought you might need something cheery in here," he said, then realized that there was not a surface in the room that wasn't occupied by flowers.

"Sorry," he mumbled. "I should have paid attention…"

"They're perfect, Booth. Thank you."

He sighed and handed her the flowers, which she accepted with a smile. He shuffled for a moment, unsure of himself, unable to meet her eyes.

"Booth. Sit. You're making me nervous."

"Sorry."

She sighed. "Can you stop apologizing? Please?"

"Yeah. Sorr – I mean, okay." He pulled up a chair and sat.

The silence hung between them like a guillotine, and Booth was unsure of what to do, feeling like anything he said would trigger the blade that might finally sever him from her life. He did more shuffling. Cleared his throat.

"So," he began. "How are you feeling?"

"Like I'm in a fog," Brennan said. "I can't remember things, and when I do, they're all out of order. Things that I think happened yesterday took place years ago, and things that truly did happen yesterday are gone completely. It's as if…someone took pieces of my mind and rearranged them."

Booth nodded. "I know that must be hard…"

"It is incredibly frustrating – not only because I want to know what happened to me, but also because I am afraid of not getting it back. Booth…my mind… I've always had my mind. To think that parts of it might never work again…"

"Bones, listen, you've gotta give yourself some time, okay? You just woke up a day ago. You've…been through a lot…"

"And it angers me that I don't even know what I've been through!" Her voice was suddenly sharp.

Booth winced. The blade was dangerously close to falling. He felt a surge of adrenaline as fight battled flight – he could cut and run and avoid the inevitable, heart-crushing conversation that was soon to come, or he could fight through it, stay for her sake, because she needed him. And because, honestly, he needed her.

"Okay. Listen, Bones. It's not going to do you any good to get all agitated like this. You've got to be patient. We'll sort through all of it later. Right now, you've just got to get better, alright?"

She nodded, her eyes glassy. She was silent for several moments, and Booth found himself holding his breath.

"I thought you were dead," she whispered. "They told me you were dead."

Booth's heart caught in his throat. "Who?"

"The men who were holding me. The terror cell. I – I saw it, Booth. I watched the explosion."

Booth recalled the events to which Bones was referring. He _had_ nearly died – two good men had sacrificed their lives that day in the jungle, sparing his and Doggett's.

"I wanted to give up," Brennan continued, her voice ragged. "I've never wanted to give up before, but knowing you were gone… I just… I wasn't sure if I could…"

Booth clutched her hand to his chest and dropped his head. "God, Bones. I'm sorry…I'm so sorry…" A sob choked off the rest of his words.

He wept silently for a few seconds, until Brennan gently pulled her hand from his and placed it on his face. He looked up, meeting her also-tear-filled eyes, and his heart broke. He shifted to sit on her bed, and suddenly she was in his arms, and the clung to each other, partners in grief and loss, guilt and fear. And relief. Bittersweet relief.

A few minutes later, she pulled away and collapsed back onto her pillow, exhausted.

"I'm sorry, Booth. I seem to be quite emotional these days. I – I don't mean to make you feel bad for something you couldn't possibly control."

Booth shook his head and stroked her hair, feeling nauseous, wishing he could melt into the floor.

"I do feel bad, Bones, but not because you told me that. God… look, you have a lot to process, and… we have a lot of things we need to talk about. But the doctors are right – you need to let yourself heal physically, okay? You need to rest, take it easy. Don't try to put everything together right now. Please?"

Brennan stared at the ceiling for a moment, then sighed and nodded. "Okay, Booth. You're right. If I want my mind – and my life, my career, all of it – back, I know you're right."

"Okay. Then can we make a pact? We don't talk about any of this until you're released from the hospital. Then, we'll work through it. Agreed?"

"Agreed. But Booth? Only if you promise me something, please." Brennan's eyes were earnest, determined.

Booth swallowed. "Anything."

"Promise me that you won't hide anything from me. I don't want to be treated like a child. I don't need to be protected. I want the truth. All of it."

#########################

In the next two weeks that followed, Brennan and Booth fell into a comfortable rhythm. Booth had to return to work at the CIA, but would visit in the early mornings before going in. He then returned immediately after work, bring dinner, and stay until nine or ten each night. Brennan seemed more at ease and was faithful to their pact, much to Booth's relief. For now, at least, things felt "normal" between them – something neither had experienced since before Afghanistan and Maluku. As the days progressed, Booth relaxed into their routine, choosing to live in the present rather than worry about what was to come.

Brennan made steady progress in her physical recovery, as well. Her shoulder was healing nicely, finally freeing her of the sling she'd been in for the past several weeks. A physical therapist had given her exercises she could do in bed, and she passed the time working through them and had gained back most of her mobility.

Her head wound was also healing rapidly, and at the end of the second week, she was taken down to the physical therapy wing to be assessed in the areas of balance, coordination, and other motor skills. It was the first time since being admitted that she'd been out of bed, and she passed the therapist's assessments with flying colors.

Booth entered her room that evening holding two bags behind his back.

"Hey Bones! How was your day? It's Friday, so I thought I'd pick up a little surprise for you – if you feel up to it, that is."

"Hi, Booth." She looked tired, but beamed a smile. "I have a surprise for you, too. What did you bring me?"

Booth stepped into the room and held up the bags. "Wong Foo's. Well, sort of." He placed the bags on the table next to Brennan's bed and pulled out a takeout box. "I managed to track down Sid. I told him about your ordeal, and even though he's officially out of the restaurant business, he whipped up something special for you. Check it out."

He opened a container to show her. "He thought you'd like some hot and sour soup. Vegan, of course. And lo-mein. He thought you needed comfort food, apparently."

Brennan laughed. "This is amazing, Booth! I haven't seen Sid in years! How did you do this?"

Booth smiled. "I have my ways. Now, dig in. I'm sure you're starved."

"I am," she said, and picked up the bowl of soup. "How was your day?"

"Eh. Boring enough. Just hearings on the al-Qadhi stuff, paperwork - you know, the usual bureaucratic crap." He paused, cleared his throat, then looked at his shoes for a moment as if to consider his next words carefully. "So, umm….next week I'm being sent on a mission. I'll be gone most of the week…"

Brennan's spoon stopped in midair. Her face went blank as she considered his words. "Where?"

Booth sighed. "Syria." He paused, unsure of how to continue. "I wouldn't normally go – I'd do anything to stay here with you, Bones. But there's chatter. Our people have tracked…" He hesitated again, unsure of how she'd react. "They found al-Qadhi, and they want me to take him out."

Brennan's expression hardened at the mention of the terrorist's name. "Booth, he is an evil man. Promise me that you won't get near him. Promise me you won't put yourself in harm's way."

"I'll be fine. I'll be far away, behind my sniper rifle. I promise, Bones."

She considered him for a moment, fire in her eyes. "Then go, Booth. Take out the bastard. The CIA is correct – you are the best one for the task."

Booth smiled for a moment. Then he looked at Brennan intently. "It'll be my last mission with the CIA. I've decided to leave the Agency. This job is not me, and Hacker and Cullen have asked me to come back to the FBI. I've accepted. I just felt like I needed to close the chapter before I left."

"Booth, that's wonderful! Will you have your office back?"

"My office, my position, my pay – everything will be like before."

_Almost everything_, thought Booth. There was still the matter of his partner. He doubted that that would ever be the same as it was before. The awkwardness hung between them for a moment as they both considered the unspoken truth between them.

"That's – that's great, Booth."

Booth nodded, and they sat in awkward silence for a few moments.

Finally, Booth spoke. "So! What is this surprise you have for me?"

Brennan set her soup on the table and drew in a breath, then smiled. "Well, I had a visit with the physical therapist this afternoon."

Booth nodded. "Yeah. Your shoulder is almost back to normal again, right? That's great, Bones."

"No….Booth. Listen. They took me down to the physical therapy wing. I was able to leave the room." She pushed the table aside and threw back the bedclothes. "Just watch, Booth."

Booth sat back in his chair and watched as Brennan slowly swung her legs to the side of the bed, leaned forward, and slowly stood to her feet.

"Not only can I stand," she said, her eyes wild with excitement, "but watch this!" She hesitated, testing her balance for a moment, then painstakingly put her right foot forward, taking a wobbly step towards Booth. Then another. Then a third.

"Whoa, Bones! Be careful!" Booth stood to his feet in surprise, watching in amazement as she made her way toward him. As she neared, she grew more and more unsteady, and he took a step forward, catching her just in time as she fell into his arms.

"Bones! That's amazing!"

"I am confident that I will be capable of walking to the end of the hall by Sunday," she boasted. She gently pushed herself to arm's length of him and grinned. "If all goes well, I could go home by the end of next week. At least, that's what the doctor says."

Booth froze. Home. Reality. The truth. It was closing in on him too fast.

"That's…. that's great, Bones," he stammered half-heartedly. "I hope that works out for you."

He guided her back to the bed, and she sat, studying him, puzzled.

"What is that supposed to mean, Booth?"

"I just… don't think you should pressure yourself to work through these steps so quickly, Bones. You've been through a lot…"

"Damn it, Booth!" she said, her voice rising. "What do you want me to do? Stay bedridden? I thought you'd be excited about the prospect of me going home."

"I am! I just…I don't want you to push it. Why the rush? Give yourself time to recover - "

"I am recovering, Booth. What is the problem?"

Booth sighed. "Nothing, Bones. Forget it. Just – get some rest, okay? I'll see you when I get back. Take care of yourself, okay?" He snatched up his coat and strode to the door.

"Booth!"

"Get some rest, Bones. I'll see you later."

And with that, he disappeared into the hallway, leaving her puzzled and wounded in his wake.


	38. Chapter 38

_Hellooooo, my lovelies! It has been awhile, hasn't it? Thank you for all the reviews and alerts checking in on me – my summer swallowed me up, but now that things are calmer, I thought I'd get back to the story. _

_So guess what? We've got two chapters left, and we're done! I am excited to wrap this thing up – it's been two years, after all – but also a little sad to see it go. _

_With that said, I'll be posting the final chapter – and epilogue – in a day or two. It's already written, so you won't have to wait!_

_A million thanks and a gigantic shoutout to my fantastic beta – and friend – the writer you know around here as some1tookmyname. Be sure to check out her work. She's an amazingly talented writer and her stories are among my very favorites around here. Plus, she makes a mean cake. _

_So then. On with the chapter. Drop me a line and let me know you're still out there. I might be convinced to post that final chapter a little sooner…._

Chapter 38

From his tenth-floor window perch, tucked away within the skeletal remains of the bombed-out textile factory, Booth smoldered. The temperature in Aleppo had exceeded the century mark hours before, and as he waited and watched the sun begin to set, he mopped his face with his sleeve and fought the flood of wandering thoughts that the endless boredom brought. He'd been here for hours, arriving before noon and waiting in the sweltering Syrian heat all afternoon, his headset silent for much of the day. His team checked in only sporadically to convey the news that there _was_ no news, and, aside from that, the only thing he could do to pass the time was to block out thoughts of everything but the task at hand.

Al-Qadhi had either gotten word of their plan, which was unlikely, or he was running on terrorist standard time, Booth thought wryly. He'd been on enough of these missions to understand that the hardest part of a sniper's job is often the waiting, the having to remain alert for hours on end, to be ready to fire at a millisecond's notice. He could not afford to let his thoughts wander, and yet the oven-like heat and the stifling, stale air made his post less than pleasant.

He was ready to get this over with. He'd been in Syria twice as long as he'd expected – al-Qadhi had delayed this meeting twice. It was the end of Booth's second week of "hurry up and wait," and he was frustrated. The sooner he could take out this bastard, the sooner he could move on with his life – whatever that looked like. He'd called her once, but had only left a message to say that he'd been detained, that it was going to take longer than they'd expected. The guilt rose like bile in his throat at the thought of being on the other side of the world from her – of abandoning her once again - and he wiped his brow and tried to shake off the ever-present memory of her face. The street below remained silent.

Somewhere over the city the _adhan_ sounded, its jarring call alerting the faithful to evening prayers, and Booth breathed a prayer of his own for al-Qadhi to hurry the hell up.

As if on cue, his earpiece crackled.

"Booth, heads up. Vehicle approaching from the south."

Within seconds, a black SUV appeared at the end of the street. It slowed as it approached the building in which he waited, then came to a stop on the curb directly beneath him. He remained tucked into the shadows, taking advantage of the cover the ragged decay of the window provided, and watched as all four doors of the SUV opened simultaneously. The meeting was to take place in the building directly across the street from his position, so getting a clear shot as the terrorist and his compadres entered the building would be a lead-pipe cinch.

He crouched into position, gun in place on the ledge, finger on the trigger, eye ready to sight. He heard the doors shut on the car and waited a beat, expecting to see them as they made their way across the street. After a beat, when they did not, he inched forward on his perch to assess the scene below, and was dismayed to find they had disappeared.

_Shit._

His earpiece hissed. "Booth. Heads up! They're in your location. Repeat – they're in your building! We've got you covered. Adjust your position."

"I'm on it," he confirmed as he scrambled off of his perch. Leading with his rifle, he moved into the hallway and quickly opted for the south stairs, which were likely more intact than the better-hidden but nearly impassible north stairwell by which he'd entered.

"_We've got the entrances covered,"_ Finley said in Booth's ear. _"Take it slow, Booth. We don't know which of them is wired."_

It was widely known that one of al-Qadhi's men always wore a suicide vest in the event that capture was near. Picking them off from across the street was one thing; getting blown to smithereens along with the target was not part of the game plan.

"Roger that," Booth muttered.

He reached the stairwell and entered silently. Outside, the sun had nearly set, plunging the passageway into complete darkness. He covered his tactical flashlight with his palm and flipped it on, and then began his descent into the darkness below, guided by the red of the glow through his hand.

When he reached the landing of the second floor, he switched off his light and paused. As the silence settled around him, he began to make out the echo of voices still quite a way away from him. They were likely in the large, main room of the factory – which was good for him because of the vast amounts of machinery he'd have as cover.

He made his way down the last flight of stairs and was about to step out into the half-light of the first floor when he heard the shuffle of feet just inches from him, followed by the distinct scent of a cigarette.

_Al-Qhadhi's goon picked a bad time for a smoke_, Booth thought. He waited until the man stepped in front of the stairwell door, and in one motion, had al-Qadhi's first bodyguard in a chokehold. A swift blow to the temple ensured that the man was immobilized, and Booth made quick work of his zip ties and a rag that was conveniently nearby to keep him quiet and secure. Satisfied that the man was free of explosives, Booth stepped out of the stairwell and closed the door behind him.

Booth held his breath and listened again. The men's voices echoed through the building, more heated than not, although Booth could not discern how many men or what language they spoke.

Making his way towards the machine floor, he hugged the wall. Al-Qadhi was shouting now, and Booth's adrenaline spiked at the thought of finishing the job. He crossed quickly to the doorway leading into the main room, flattened to the wall, and then entered the room. As he swept a wide arc with his gun, movement caught his eye in the left of his periphery.

Suddenly, he was taken to the ground in a side tackle with the force of a freight train, knocking the wind from his chest and sending his rifle skidding across the factory floor. He gasped for breath and swung wildly, his fist meeting a jaw that felt like solid lead. His attacker didn't flinch, but raised his fist and aimed squarely at Booth's face.

Booth struggled, then kicked upward into his attacker's chest, attempting to knock the man off balance. The other man barely budged, but it was enough to give Booth time to reach his utility knife. Ripping it from its sheath in his belt, he heaved himself forward and swung the knife, missing his target.

An iron fist landed squarely on Booth's jaw, snapping his head backwards into the cement, and Booth found himself pinned, the cold steel of a gun muzzle pressed into his forehead. Booth blindly swung the knife upward until it met warmth. He twisted it until he saw red, felt the heaviness on his chest give slightly, and heard a gurgling sound above him. Finally, the pressure on top of him gave way, and the bodyguard rolled to the factory floor.

Booth gasped for breath and blinked the stars from his vision as he staggered to his feet. Al-Qadhi's man was near death, Booth's knife having found his neck. Booth regained his footing and snatched up his rifle.

"Two hostiles down," he choked into his mic as he stumbled forward.

"_We've got infrared on the site, Booth,"_ came Finley's voice._"Looks like your guy is in the northeast corner of the room with two others."_

"Copy." Booth made his way down a row of large machines, ducking around giant skeins of fabric hanging tattered and ragged from their rusted arms, reaching for him like ghosts in the fading light.

The conversation at the corner of the room grew heated once more, and Booth took advantage of the crescendo, grateful for the distraction as he moved closer. Swiftly and silently he rounded the corner of the machine row and ducked behind a half wall.

Al-Qadhi and his companions were less than fifty yards away. They were shouting now, al-Qadhi and another man nose to nose, and Booth used the moment to move in closer, taking cover behind another row of machinery. It was nearly dark. He'd be able to close the gap quickly now.

"_Booth, hostile behind you…"_

He swung around in time to see the shadow of a small-framed man fast approaching him, gun raised. The man shouted something in Arabic, but he went unheard as the voices on the other side of the row continued to argue.

Booth trained his laser on the man's chest and advanced towards the man. The bodyguard shouted again, this time silencing the other two voices. Another shout of alarm from al-Qadhi, followed by approaching footsteps, and Booth knew that he was surrounded.

"Drop the gun," seethed al-Qadhi from behind. Booth heard the click of a gun safety.

Booth considered his options. The remaining bodyguard was likely wired up with explosives. It was too dark to see. Al-Qadhi had a gun trained on Booth's back. Booth could take out al-Qadhi, but would risk getting blown up. On the other hand, if he opted for the bodyguard with the bomb, there were no guarantees that the bodyguard had the detonator. Knowing al-Qadhi, he held it himself.

He needed time. Finley and his men were watching. They'd storm the place, but he knew he needed to get that detonator first.

"I'm putting down my gun," he said, and slowly bent down and set it on the floor, then stood and turned to face the terrorist, arms raised in surrender.

"You are American," said al-Qadhi. Dim light from the street outside shone through a high window, illuminating a patch of floor between them. Al-Qadhi gestured to it. "Step into the light."

Booth took a step forward. Al-Qadhi raised his gun and aimed at Booth's head.

"I do not care who you are. I do not want to know why you are here. Get on your knees."

Booth complied. "The place is surrounded, al-Qadhi. You're done."

"I believe you. But if they try to take me, they will only die." He held up a small device, confirming Booth's suspicions. "In the meantime, I will take great pleasure in sending you on your way ahead of your brothers."

He stepped forward and pressed the gun into Booth's temple and pulled back the hammer.

Like lightning, Booth ducked and barreled headfirst into al-Qadhi's stomach, sending him flying backwards as he squeezed off a desperate shot at the ceiling. The detonator clattered across the floor into the shadows, and Booth rolled off of the terrorist and sprung to his feet as al-Qadhi struggled to recover from Booth's blow. A shot rang out from behind, ricocheting off the machinery, and Booth ducked to his right and retrieved his rifle, making quick work of taking down the bodyguard who was firing at him. A crash, followed by the sound of dozens of boots at the other end of the room told Booth that help had arrived.

Booth swung to face al-Qadhi, who snatched up his gun and stood. Booth squeezed off a round, taking the terrorist's gun – and the hand that held it. Al-Qadhi staggered but did not fall, screaming curses at Booth as he advanced toward him as blood spurted from the mess that used to be his hand.

Blinding beams from fifteen powerful flashlights suddenly erupted from all sides as Booth's backup team surrounded them, every weapon trained on the lone terrorist. Al-Qadhi froze, then dropped to his knees, raising his good hand in the air.

Booth stepped towards the terrorist, rifle trained on the man's head.

Al-Qadhi glared at Booth. "I will not go with you."

He opened his raised hand, revealing the small black detonator.

Booth took the shot.

Then the world exploded.


	39. Chapter 39

_Well, here it is. We're in the last full chapter, and the one you've asking for – I've been thinking about this chapter for two and a half years now, and we're finally here! _

_Bucketloads of thanks to Some1tookmyname for the amazingly thorough and brilliant beta work. Her contributions gave this chapter the polish it needed. I am forever in her debt._

_I'll be posting the epilogue shortly after this chapter, so stay tuned._

Chapter 39

"Ok, seriously, if this baby doesn't stop with the hiccups. Look at this!"

Angela shifted uncomfortably in the chair, and Brennan laughed from her hospital bed as she watched Angela's swollen abdomen twitch with each tiny hiccup.

"It simply means that the fetus has a healthy diaphragm, Ange. Perhaps he'll be a – singer when he gets older. Musical like his grandfather."

Angela rolled her eyes. "Yeah, that's great, except that every time he hiccups, he kicks me under my ribs."

A nurse appeared in the doorway. "Ms. Brennan, I just wanted to remind you that it's nearly nine. Visiting hours will be over in a few minutes."

They thanked the nurse, and Angela struggled to her feet. "Do you want the TV on? Want me to find you some boring PBS documentary?"

Brennan smiled. "Thanks, Ange."

Angela picked up the remote and began flipping channels. "I can't believe this room. I mean, a 60 inch flatscreen? Thank God for great insurance -"

Her voice trailed off when she realized that every major news channel was carrying the same footage – something big had broken into all regular programming. She landed on CNN and turned up the volume.

"…_don't have much more information than that. Once again, we are awaiting confirmation, but early reports indicate that there has been some sort of explosion in a warehouse in Syria, where sources say terror mastermind Yasir al-Qadhi was hiding." _

"They got him!" Angela whispered, backing away from the TV. She sat next to Brennan on her bed, eyes glued to the screen.

"_We are now receiving word that an American team – and we don't know if they were Special Ops or some other agency – but a team of Americans were in that warehouse, perhaps on a raid, when it exploded. Teresa Adams is on the ground in nearby Bahgdad. Teresa, what are you hearing?"_

"Oh my god, Sweetie…"

"…_a firefight, which we're hearing may have resulted in the death of terror leader Yasir al-Qadhi. There was an explosion, but again, we are unsure of how many, if any Americans were in the building, and how many casualties…_

Fear overtook Brennan, dragging her into a sea of panic. She stood, ignoring the pain, her face ashen. She stumbled forward a step and braced herself against the dresser. The room was closing in around her.

"I – I need to be alone, Angela."

"Bren, no. I'm not leaving you…"

"…_now confirming that Yasir al-Qadhi has indeed been killed. There are reportedly two Americans among the dead as well as several members of al-Qadhi's group…"_

The room swam around her. "Please, Angela. I need you to go. Please don't argue. Please let me be alone…"

Angela breathed a ragged sigh and stood shakily. "Okay, whatever you want, Sweetie. But I'm only going as far as the waiting room. Okay?"

Brennan nodded absently, her eyes still glued to the television. She remained frozen for several minutes, holding her breath, until she realized that Angela had gone.

She snatched up the remote and flipped to another channel, desperate for more information. After several minutes, when it was apparent that every channel was merely repeating the same facts on an endless loop, she threw the remote onto the bed and sighed.

Nervous energy coursed through her. She had to get out of the room. Forgetting her injuries, she willed herself across the room.

When she reached the door, she collapsed against the frame, trembling, and stared into the empty hallway.

Suddenly exhausted, she realized that there was nowhere to go. Her legs simply would not carry her any farther.

She resigned herself to a painstaking trek back across the room and dropped onto the bed. On the bedside table, her phone was alight with a text message alert. She snatched it up with trembling hands.

It was a text from Doggett containing just two words:

_He's ok._

She stared at the message, reading the words over and over, too shell-shocked to respond. Finally, she gathered her wits, and typed:

_How do you know? _

His reply came within seconds.

_I have sources. Can't tell u more. But he's unhurt and on his way home._

She collapsed against the pillows, processing the information.

He was unhurt. He was coming home.

And then, suddenly, she was angry. The way he'd left, the message saying he was going to be away longer than expected, the distance between them, his silence now – it all fed into the swirl of confusing, tumultuous memories from the past three months. As bits and pieces of memories began to return, she had managed to assemble a narrative of what they'd been through over the last several months. And the more she put the puzzle pieces back together, the more sure she was that, while he'd been dutifully present with her over the last few weeks in the hospital, there was an uneasiness to him, as if there something he was hiding from her.

And then, two weeks ago, he'd left her again. No – he'd _fled_.

And he'd nearly gotten himself killed. Again.

She turned onto her side, away from the thoughts of him, away from newscast, and slipped into a fitful sleep, where the endlessly looping, grainy footage of a burning warehouse half a world away haunted her dreams.

##################

"Dad, really – I don't need you to stay," Brennan insisted as she leaned wearily against the wall outside her front door. "I'll be fine."

The short journey from hospital to the car, then from the car to her apartment at the end of the hall, was the most she'd walked in weeks. It had been slow going, with Max at her elbow in case her often-faltering legs failed her, but she'd been determined to make it the entire way by herself. Now Max was fumbling with her keys, and a wave of exhaustion washed over her. She only wanted to sit down.

"Nonsense, Tempe," he said with a grunt as he heaved the door open. "Why is your door so damn heavy?"

"Security," she said as he took her arm and led her into her apartment. "Years ago, after the Epps case, Booth had it installed…" She stopped herself for fear that the conversation would turn to the one subject – specifically the one person - she was not interested in discussing.

Max released her arm.

"I'll just put your bags down," he said quickly. He set them near the kitchen table, and then turned to face her. She looked away, irritated by the empathy on his face.

Max went to her and touched shoulder. "Honey, he'll be here. He's probably been delayed again. You saw the news. They're probably asking a lot of questions…"

She pressed her lips together and pushed past him, her still-awkward gait frustrating her efforts to flee the room as quickly as she wanted. "I'm very tired. I'd like to lie down."

"Okay," Max called after her. "Would you like some soup first? It's nearly dinner."

"It's only 3:30, Dad." She reached the threshold of her bedroom and turned, hand on the doorknob. "There are – there should be – clean sheets on the guest bed. Make yourself at home. But you don't need to stay."

"You already said that, and I'm staying."

She said nothing, shut the door, and leaned heavily against it, assessing her room.

Everything was as she had left it, but it appeared to have been recently freshened up. _Angela_, she thought. Grateful as she was for her friends and family and their vigilant concern for her, she wanted nothing more than to lock herself in her room, get in her own bed, and cocoon herself within its warmth and safety for a long, long time.

She made her way across the room and sat stiffly on the bed, wincing as the jolt of pain spread through her healing shoulder. The hospital bracelet dug into her wrist like a handcuff. She opened her nightstand drawer and withdrew a pair of small scissors and snipped it off, allowing it to fall unceremoniously to the floor. She kicked off her flats and wriggled under the covers, pulling them to her chin.

She reached up to turn off the bedside lamp, and then pulled the covers higher, hoping to extinguish the jumble of thoughts along with the light. She wanted to sleep, recover, get back to work. The emotions, the speculation, and the heartache were wearying - and a waste of time. Logic. Reason. Rationality. Brain. Science. It was the only way she knew to get her life back.

##########################

Brennan slept straight through the night and awoke just as the sun broke through the morning clouds. The light in her room was scarlet, signaling an approaching atmospheric disturbance over the city; the thick, humid morning would become a stormy summer day.

Silence permeated the apartment, and she sat up and strained to hear indications of Max's wakefulness. He was normally an early riser, and she'd expected to find him in the kitchen flipping pancakes at this hour. It was almost eight, but she smelled no breakfast, nor did she hear the TV.

She padded to the door and opened it quietly, still unwilling to be social. When it was apparent that he was not in the main living space of her apartment, she ventured out into the kitchen, listened for the shower, but was met with nothing but empty silence.

The coffee pot, she discovered, was full and still hot to her touch. She poured a cup, shuffled to the fridge for some soymilk, and noticed the note that was hanging on its door:

_Tempe,_

_Had some errands to run. Be back later._

_-Dad_

Before she had time to ponder the fact that he'd left her alone, there was a knock at the door.

"Dad, you have keys," she muttered to herself. She put down her mug and sighed, then began the painstaking journey from her kitchen counter to the front door. When she finally made it halfway, she became impatient, and called out, "Dad! Just open the door!"

When he didn't respond, she cursed. Finally reaching the entryway, and muttering unpleasantries, she turned the deadbolt and struggled to pull the door inward, her shoulder still not strong enough to handle the heavy load.

"Did you forget something? I was just -"

Suddenly, the door swung open, assisted from the other side.

In its wake stood Booth.

Brennan froze. "I'm – I thought - you were Max."

He shoved his hands in his pockets and nodded doggedly. "He just left."

"He knew you were coming over?" Brennan felt the anger rising.

"Yeah," he said, his eyes on the floor. "We spoke last night. I – was going to come by last night when I got in, but he said you were sleeping."

She turned and seethed her way into the living room, furious at Max for setting her up like this.

"So…can I come in?" His voice was tentative behind her.

She didn't turn around. "I was hoping to be alone this morning, Booth."

"Bones -" He took a step into the entryway. "I couldn't wait to see you. I haven't even slept. You - you look great. It's so good to see you up and around. It's really, really good to have you back home."

"Thank you, Booth. It's good to be home." She fell into her desk chair, turned away from him, and flipped open her computer, busying herself with the task of wiping the dust from its screen as it flickered to life. "Thank you for stopping by."

"Bones, c'mon…" he pleaded, and to her annoyance, she heard him shut the front door. Suddenly he was at her side, kneeling beside her chair.

"Hey," he said, and gently swiveled her around to face him. "Don't shut me out, okay? What's going on?"

She swallowed and turned her face towards the window, silently cursing the tears that pricked at her eyes. "Nothing is going on," she ground out.

He said nothing. She could feel his penetrating stare.

She clenched her teeth, her chest constricting as the anger built. Finally, the words burst forth as if from a pressure valve. "I – I don't know what's going on, Booth!" she stammered. "How could I possibly know what is going on? No one will _tell_ me!"

She faced him then, eyes blazing. "I am sick of being treated like a child – everyone is acting like there's some big secret they're keeping from me. I see it on their faces when they visit me. And I have memories – awful memories - and I don't know if they're real or not. I'm a genius, Booth, and I can't even trust my mind. And you – _you_, of all people… I thought you were dead, Booth! Dead! And then you were back, but I could tell that something was wrong, because I could see it on your face, too – and then you left again -"

"But I came back, Bones. I'm right here," he said reaching for her hand, but she shook it off, standing and stumbling awkwardly past him, desperate to put distance between them.

She stopped behind the loveseat and turned to face him, using it as a barrier between them, a support to lean on.

"My body no longer works properly, my mind is fragmented, my work is in jeopardy, our partnership – everything I've ever known - is gone. I need answers, Booth! I need to know what I still have, because I feel as if I've lost everything."

Booth stood and slowly walked to the couch, the silence palpable between them. He sat heavily and contemplated the floor for several minutes. When he looked up again, she noticed for the first time, how banged up he was. There was a large gash over his left eye and a sizeable bruise on his cheek – not to mention the countless cuts and abrasions on his arms and hands. The roadmap of lines on his face and the dark circles under his eyes told of his complete exhaustion.

"Okay," he resigned, nodding. "Okay. I'm sorry, Bones. I've been wanting to talk to you for weeks now – since you woke up – but it never seemed like the right time. I – everyone – wanted to make sure you were okay, that you were strong – we didn't want to overwhelm you."

She deflated slightly. She picked her way across the room, making a wide arc around the couch, and sat back down in her desk chair.

"You've been through so damn much," he said, his voice breaking. "And it's my fault, Bones. It's all my fault."

Her eyes bore into him with laser-like intensity. "What are you talking about?"

He dropped his head again, scrubbing his neck with his hands. "God, forgive me," he choked. "And I hope that you can forgive me someday, Bones. But if you can't, I get that. I understand completely."

He stood and began to pace in front of the couch, his eyes rimmed with red, and sucked in a breath.

"I was awful to you. When I thought you were rejecting me again, it sent me over the edge. My insecurity got the best of me, and I sort of went off the deep end."

"You left the country and severed our partnership," she murmured.

"I'd just had enough, you know? Hannah turning me down, and then you – on the very same night, no less - I knew you had feelings for me, because you'd told me, but there you were, pushing me away again…"

"Booth, you have to know that the reason I pushed you away was _because_ it was the very same night you'd broken up with Hannah. I do remember that night very clearly. It was a rational decision, but it wasn't an easy one for me."

"I know. And I knew it then. I think I was just mad at the world, and you were the closest target. I'm so sorry, Bones. I'm sorry I bailed. I'm sorry I hurt you. I'm sorry for the things I said to you in anger."

He stopped in front of her chair and looked at her in anguish. "I'm sorry I severed our partnership. I knew it would hurt you – hell, I _wanted_ it to hurt you. I wanted you to hurt as much as me. But I had no idea how much you'd pay for my selfishness."

He dropped onto the couch again, elbows on his knees, head bowed low. "I had no idea that it would end up this way," he rasped. "Because of me, you were taken. Because of me, you were a prisoner. Because of me, you were nearly – you were nearly killed…"

The words hung between them for a few moments. Brennan watched as his guilt ate him alive there on her couch, but her mind was swirling with a tangle of images that she could not unravel. He was not making sense.

"There's no evidence to support that, Booth. Your logic is faulty. _I_ made the choice to go undercover. The cult was a case _I_ was working on -"

"With a partner who obviously wasn't capable of protecting you!"

Brennan stood, her blood pressure spiking. "Agent Doggett has been an excellent partner, Booth – and a good friend! _I_ chose to go undercover, and he agreed, because he – unlike you – respects my judgment and treats me as a capable, equal partner, not like a clueless squint who always needs to be protected!"

"That's just fantastic," Booth spat, standing to look her in the eye. "I'm so glad you have a partner you can trust, Bones. Because it's obvious that I'm not the guy for the job! If I hadn't acted like such an asshole, you would have been safe!"

"Booth, I have _always_ trusted you! I may not always agree with you, because you make choices based on your so-called 'gut' and not on logic and reason, but I have always trusted you. And - you've still given me no evidence to prove that you are unworthy of that trust."

He began to pace again, silent for several seconds, collecting his thoughts.

"I was so desperate to find you, Bones," he said finally. His breath hitched. "It nearly killed me, knowing you were out there, not knowing where you were, or who had you, or what they'd done to you. I half-assed my job at the CIA because I couldn't think of anything else but getting you back and making sure you were safe. What kind of agent does that make me?"

He let the question hang in the air and crossed to the window, lost in thought for a moment.

"As luck would have it," he said bitterly, "the terrorist I was after was the same one who had you. Luck! And we found him, Bones – we found you. Doggett and I raided the boat you were on with a team. We saw you. We were _this_ close." He turned and faced her, his face ashen at the memory. "And then you were gone - again. They got away with you, and the boat blew up, and a lot of men died that night. Because of me."

"Those men would have died with or without you…"

"Bones, don't you get it? If I hadn't left, if I hadn't severed our partnership, you wouldn't have partnered with Doggett, gotten that case, been kidnapped, and handed over to al-Qadhi. There would have been no raid on that boat."

Brennan's last thread of patience finally snapped. "Do you just _want_ to make this about you, Booth?" she demanded. "Because I find that offensive! Don't play the victim here – you made a mistake, ok? Own it! Be a man and own it! But blaming yourself for every single thing that's wrong with the world is not going to change what happened to me, or to you, or to us! It happened, Booth! Forgive yourself and move on with your life!"

"I can't, Bones! I can't forgive myself!" he cried. "Damn it, Bones! It was me! I – I – shot you, Bones! I fucking _shot_ you. I was the one! I almost killed you, with my own hands! All of this, your memory and your pain and your life - everything you've lost - I caused this. I did this to you!"

He took a step toward her, and she backed away in shock, falling into the desk chair, unable to comprehend what he was saying. He landed on his knees in front of her chair, buried his head in his hands, and wept.

She sat in stunned silence, trying to absorb his words and what they meant.

This was the piece of the puzzle that everyone had hidden from her.

This was the guilt that haunted him.

This was why she had been in the hospital, clinging to life, and was now clawing her way back to normalcy, desperately hoping that her brain, her intelligence, and her life would somehow return.

They sat together like that for many minutes, with nothing but his soul-wracking sobs and the awful truth filling the space around them.

Finally, gingerly, Brennan slid down onto the floor next to him and touched his knee.

"Booth."

He did not respond.

She inched closer and leaned in, placing a hand on the back of his neck.

"Booth. Look at me."

He complied, his brown eyes liquid with oceans of remorse, fear, and self-loathing.

"Did you know it was me?"

"What?"

"When you pulled the trigger. Did you know you were aiming at me?"

"God, Bones, of course not! We thought – you were in a burqa. With a bomb strapped to your chest. There were children…"

"Then why would you blame yourself? How could you have known?"

"I – I couldn't."

She slid her hand to his cheek. "Then it was an accident. An unfortunate accident."

He looked away and shook his head. "But one that would not have happened if I hadn't -"

"I forgive you."

She took his face in both of her hands.

"I forgive you, Booth. Now I need you to forgive yourself. We can't change the past, but we can make the future whatever we want it to be."

He reached up and took her hand in his, and then brought her fingers to his lips. "Oh, god, Bones. Do you know how much – how much I love you? What an incredible human being you are?"

She gave him a small smile then. "I seem to have lost all memory of that. You might need to remind me."

He met her eyes, his face brightening with a half smile.

"Yeah?"

"The doctor did say that tangible reminders will help stimulate memories."

His half smile became a full grin. "I can do that, Bones. I can definitely do that."

He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her to him, and when his lips met hers, all that was wrong between them melted away into the promise of forgiveness.


	40. Chapter 40

_I can't believe this is the end! I never imagined I'd ever write anything this long, or this involved – I had no idea it would turn into this. _

_I had no idea that I'd find such a warm and welcoming community of like-minded people. This fandom is awesome! _

_A final thank you to some1tookmyname – Tracy, you are just swell. Thank you for helping bring this story to life, and for your encouragement and expert editing skills – and for nudging me to keep going._

_I am so grateful to all of you, my amazing readers, who have stuck this out with me for the past 2 ½ years. You kept me going! Thanks for being part of this journey with me. It's been a blast – I hope we can do it again soon!_

Chapter 40 – Epilogue

All they'd been through as partners – all the team had been through – was finally behind them, and it was time to come together and mark the end of one of the hardest seasons of their lives.

The last several days alone had been a rollercoaster. In the space of seventy-two hours, Booth had taken out the world's most wanted terrorist, concluded his job at the CIA, filled out mountains of paperwork, had endless phone meetings – and was doing it on little to no sleep. He'd not left her apartment since he first arrived, and they'd expended much energy in the hours he was not on phone calls or filling out paperwork "making up for lost time," as he liked to put it.

Tonight, however, they sat together at the Founding Fathers with their friends, celebrating. Toasts were offered up to getting the bad guy, to the team, to temporary partners and new friends, to Booth and Brennan finally getting their damn acts together, and by the way, why the hell weren't they at home doing the "makeup tango" (this toast was given by Caroline, followed by a warning that they'd best be visiting her good friend, the Justice of the Peace, before long). Booth offered the last toast to Brennan. To healing. To love. To the future.

It was nearly midnight when the final round was poured, and one by one, their closest friends began to slip out – Angela, who had been having minor contractions and Hodgins, who was ready to call an ambulance, which was strongly opposed by Angela, were the first to go. Cam, Sweets, Caroline, Wendell, Vincent, and Daisy eventually followed suit, each offering hugs and well-wishes and support to Booth and Brennan in their own unique way.

As Brennan finally extricated herself from Ms. Wick's over-exuberant final embrace, she spotted Doggett. He approached the partners now, his blue eyes twinkling.

"Dr. Brennan, Agent Booth - I guess this is it. It's been a hell of a ride."

"Thank you, Agent Doggett, for everything," said Brennan. "I – will miss working with you - especially your fascinating stories about extraterrestrials."

Doggett smiled. "I'm gonna miss you, too, Dr. Brennan. Do you always put your partner through the shit I had to go through with you?"

"Always," Booth retorted. "But I think you got an extra dose."

Doggett laughed. "Well, I just wanted to say thanks to you both. I hope we'll be able to work together again sometime."

Booth knocked back the last of his beer and set his glass down on the bar with a sharp _rap_. He offered his hand to Doggett.

"John, I can't thank you enough for all you've done. You're a good man, and a great cop. We wouldn't be here without you."

Doggett shook his hand firmly. "It was truly an honor, Agent Booth." He released Booth's hand and hugged Brennan. "It's good to see you guys together again," he said, assessing the partners. "Take care of each other, ok? What the two of you have is rare. I'd venture to call it 'legendary.' You're Scully and Mulder."

"Hey! Scully and Mulder," grinned Booth. "See, Bones?"

She laughed, and they waved once more at Doggett as he made his way to the exit.

They turned back to the bar. He threw his arm around her shoulders and pulled her close. "What do you say, Bones? Tequila?"

She flashed a conspiratorial grin and signaled to the bartender.

They reclaimed their usual place at the end of the bar, and drank until the bartender cut them off. Then, she paid the tab and turned to face her partner.

He was drunk. She couldn't blame him, actually, given all they'd been through. Months ago, they'd begun their journey in these very same chairs, fragmented, on separate paths, unaware of what lay ahead.

In spite of it all, and perhaps even because of it, she realized that the heartache, the fear, the separation, the brokenness – all of it was necessary. After years of bad timing and near misses, maybe this time they'd finally get it right.

And so, she gathered her things and stood.

"Let's get you home, Booth," she said, touching his shoulder. He smiled and stood, taking her hand in his, and she led him into the night, knowing that what was to come – what happened next – would be faced together, two parts of a whole that was finally complete.


End file.
